











* 


* 








































* 

* m 

























- 



























































































































t 










■ 

























* 































# 































































. 






















* 




















The Works of Leonard Merrick 


JWL 

) 


THE WORLDLINGS 


The Works of 

LEONARD MERRICK 


CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH. With 
an Introduction by Sib J. M. Barrie. 

WHEN LOVE FLIES OUT O’ THE WINDOW. 
With an Introduction by Sir William Robert- 
son Nicoll. 

THE QUAINT COMPANIONS. With an Intro- 
duction by H. G. Wells. 

THE POSITION OF PEGGY HARPER. With 
an Introduction by Sir Arthur Pinero. 

THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN and 
other Stories. With an Introduction by W. J. 
Locke. 

THE WORLDLINGS. With an Introduction by 
Neil Munro. 

THE ACTOR-MANAGER. W 7 ith an Introduction 
by W. D. Howells. 

CYNTHIA. W T ith an Introduction by Maurice 
Hewlett. 

ONE MAN’S VIEW. With an Introduction by 
Granville Barker. 

THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD. With an Intro- 
duction by J. K. Prothero. 

A CHAIR ON THE BOULEVARD. With an 
Introduction by A. Neil Lyons. 

THE HOUSE OF LYNCH. With an Introduc- 
tion by G. K. Chesterton. 

WHILE PARIS LAUGHED: Being Pranks and 
Passions of the Poet Tricotrin. 


NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 


THE 

WORLDLINGS 

¥ 

By LEONARD MERRICK 

* 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

NEIL MUNRO 



NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 
681 FIFTH AVENUE 


Copyright, 1919, 

BY E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 


All Rights Reserved 





The First American Definitive Edition, with "Introduction by 
Neil Munro, limited to 1550 copies 
(of which only 1500 were for sale). 

Published, December, 1919. 

Second American Edition, January, 1920. 

Third 44 44 44 1920. 

Fourth 44 44 February, 1920. 



Printed in the United States of America 


INTRODUCTION 


The Worldlings has in it almost every element 
of Merrick’s attractiveness as a tale-teller, save 
perhaps his humour, here kept severely in 
restraint as a quality out of key in a story- 
founded on “one of the passionate cruces of life, 
where duty and inclination come nobly to the 
grapple.” The conventionality of the plot, how- 
ever, and the superficial curiosities it evokes, may 
at a first reading leave less impressive its grasp 
of human character, that quality which its 
author’s admirers best like in him. Yet one 
comes upon returned South Africans who place 
The Worldlings among Merrick’s highest 
achievements. The vraisemblance of its earlier 
chapters, with the airs and manners of life on the 
Fields deployed in those colours that there pre- 
dominate in the landscape and the minds of men, 
possibly appeals peculiarly to the exiles of 
Africa, but they are intrigued, furthermore, no 
doubt, by the story itself, with its sharp social 
contrasts, wherein a man yesterday a beggarly 
overseer to-day is living the life of a lord in the 
stateliest English surroundings. This vision of 
y 


INTRODUCTION 


vi 

a possible sudden affluence must always be dear 
to the imagination of men occupied loathsomely 
in an alien atmosphere of 100 degrees in the 
shade, in association with Zulus and Kaffirs, and 
ever carried on from day to day through their 
squalid search for gems by the hope of a possible 
Koh-i-noor or Cullinan. 

Not that the Diamond Fields now, or in the 
days when Merrick was there, directly present 
any such glittering possibilities to the overseer. 
As Maurice Blake, the hero of The Worldlings, 
found in the years of the New Rush, the Fields 
proffer no better prospect than a living wage to 
any one who can secure no proprietary interest 
in the precious stuff he handles, and who must 
see in Kimberley less a mining camp than a 
vulgar share market. Yet through a thousand 
hopeless dawns will men of spirit maintain 
illusions, cherish dreams, and one surmises that 
Merrick in his story ministered deliberately to 
this almost universal human aptitude to speculate 
upon the possibilities of sudden wealth. It is 
the theme of a myriad tales, and some of them 
the best in the world. Sudden wealth being, in 
the nature of things, unlikely to any overseer 
on the Fields, and too ridiculous to postulate in 
Maurice Blake’s case as a result of theft or 
I.D.B., there remained to the author the alterna- 


INTRODUCTION 


vii 

tive of an unexpected English inheritance for his 
hero, which should, at a flash, release him from 
his purgatory. It would have been banal to 
have Blake merely a baronet’s son incognito; 
much more piquant play was to be made by hav- 
ing him impersonate one. The story of Sir 
Roger Tiehborne is older than the Trial of the 
Claimant ; it is one of the original thirty-six pos- 
sible plots (or whatever the number may be) to 
* which every story in the world may be traced. 
But the Tiehborne imposture is what we first 
think of when the worldling’s career is lamented. 
Merrick inevitably made his hero another Tich- 
bome ; but illiterate Richard Ortons are, in a 
. book, as in real life, impossible creatures to thrust 
. through conversational engagements with mem- 
bers of the “upper circles” while maintaining the 
cloak of importance, and consequently Merrick’s 
hero had to be something of a cultured man. 

A cultured man that he might be capable of 
those conversational flights which rarely happen 
in the real life of Society, but which no author 
dare dispense with in his dialogue if Society be 
his theme; a man capable of at least one im- 
pulsive dishonourable act, yet at bottom a soul 
of honour, and capable of great renunciations — 
such was the type necessary for the heroic im- 
postor, and having decided upon him, the rest of 


INTRODUCTION 


yin 

the machinery was fairly easy. It needed but to 
create a few more figures of men and women who 
by act and word should carry the hero through 
the tale with plausibility. As The Worldlings 
is not one of those tales in which the author 
keeps a card up his sleeve to be brought forth 
with stunning effect in the denouement, prac- 
tically all its trend being obvious after the first 
two chapters, one may divulge its main idea 
without giving away anything to lessen the eager 
anticipation of the reader. He is kept in sus- 
pense not by a succession of mechanically con- 
trived events but by the fresh recurring problems 
of honour which must inevitably arise after the 
first faux pas of Blake. 

I There are really but four protagonists in The 
Worldlings — Maurice Blake himself, who be- 
came the soi-disant Philip Jardine; the girl he 
married under false pretences; Xtosa Fleming, 
the Jezebel of the piece, and Sir Noel Jardine, 
the father of the dead man impersonated. Those 
four characters are admirably portrayed — fresh, 
vigorous, and subtle, fitting into the fable with 
the inevitability of fate. Blake himself achieved 
the difficult task of securing our sympathy 
despite his error, long before that final renuncia- 
tion which, as by a sudden happy shock, jolts all 
the discordant bells of his life into harmony. It 


INTRODUCTION 


IX 


is, fortunately, none of the author’s business, 
either to anticipate or disclose how the Blake 
menage weathered that fiscal adversity for which, 
at the hour of revelation, the splendours of Croft 
Court had to be relinquished. A wife whose 
first impression of the man to be her husband is 
summed up in “half a radical, half a bore” (a 
shameful misunderstanding of Maurice Blake’s 
character), is really only beginning to be tested 
when the curtain falls. Four protagonists — no, 
there are really five, on coming to think of it 
again; Lady Wrensfordsley, the most truly 
worldly of all the “worldlings,” is one of the most 
striking characters in the book; to the heart of 
her the author gets even “further ben,” as we say 
in Scotland, than he does with her daughter or 
Rosa Fleming, though all his women are micro- 
scopically observed. 

The worldlings move in a real atmosphere, not 
in a vacuum with surroundings gathered from 
auction sales and described with the minutiae of a 
catalogue, and Merrick’s English park and Lon- 
don are as emotionally and visually right as his 
Diamond Fields. This faculty of conveying the 
real airs of diverse scenes as far apart as the 
Antipodes, or separate only by a carriage 
journey, is one of the author’s happiest gifts; he 
may spare but a paragraph or two for topog- 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


raphy, but all that is essential will be conveyed* 
and the appropriate “weather” will be apparent 
though there may be no hint of shower or sun- 
shine. 

Popular fiction, both in America and in Great 
Britain, has for some years back exploited just 
such rough soil as Merrick works on in his open- 
ing chapters; marvels of dramatic creation are 
done with adventurous men in gold mines and 
such by a free use of technical terminology, slang, 
and firearms. Merrick, however, is for no such 
facile effects; he disposes of Kimberley almost 
as quickly as Blake removes it from his mind, 
with a dry grimace, as it were, which suggests 
that the author in South Africa was as homesick 
as the hero of his tale. Yet in brief passages the 
face of the land takes form before our senses: — 

“The burning glare of the day was 
gradually abating; the sun streamed across 
the sorting-shed, turning the corrugated 
iron of the roof to fire. A breeze arose, hot 
as the breath of an oven, catching the dried 
tailings, and blowing them across the floors 
in clouds that grew momentarily denser. 
As it increased in force, the grit was volley- 
ing in blinding gusts, hissing as it swept 
near and stinging the neck and hands. 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 


The atmosphere was darkened as if by fog; 
the doors of adjacent sheds slammed vio- 
lently; and the neighing of the horses could 
be heard. But after half an hour the dust- 
storm passed. 

“Slowly, slowly the sun dropped lower 
behind the sorting-shed; the grey of the 
diamondiferous ground lost its tinge of 
blue, and the screams of the engines 
announced that the day was done.” 

On the whole it is not surprising that such 
an atmosphere should make the prospect of 
Croft Court, one of the oldest baronetcies in 
England, and £20,000 a year irresistible to 
Maurice Blake. 

Again, “I never imagined such a place; I can’t 
say any more, but I feel the greatness of it right 
in my heart,” said Maurice to the Baronet after 
his first glimpse of Croft Court and its surround- 
ings — you get no more than that to indicate the 
splendour of the scene, but the reality of Sir 
Noel’s good fortune and his place in the social 
galaxy of a shire are manifest enough. 

Perhaps the final and most exacting test of 
a novel is its philosophy; there the foolish may 
betray a foolish naivete or a train of ideas 
fatuous through a wrong premise or a perverted 


INTRODUCTION 


xii 

idea of the problems of life and time. Merrick 
is always sane, even in his sentimental and 
romantic moods; if he has illusions — and who 
can escape them in a world of appearances? — 
they are not of the common and contemptible 
order that upholster so many novels of crime, 
wealth, and passion. 


Neil Munbo. 














, c 




THE WORLDLINGS 











CHAPTER I 


The thermometer registered 100° in the shade, 
and where he stood there was no shade; on the 
depositing-floors no relief from the intense dry 
heat was possible for even a moment. He was 
paid to watch twelve Kaffirs and Zulus, who 
broke the lumps of diamondiferous soil into 
smaller pieces, and were adroit in concealing the 
gems ; their skins glistened now, and they swung 
their picks torpidly. He was paid to watch them 
from “sun up” until “sun down,” and God 
knows there was little else for him to view. No 
tree, no shrub, rose here; there was nothing but 
the arid earth, and the blue flare of sky. In his 
eyes was the dazzle of the grey ground which 5 
stretched before him like a level beach, and re- 
flected the blaze of the sun; in his ears was the 
long-drawn whir of the tubs as they travelled the 
wire runners to the mine ; in his heart was despair. 

For six months he had lived this loathsome 
life — he was remembering it. During six months 
he had filled a fool’s berth, because energy, and 
brains, and education were able to find no better 
opening. In ’82 the time when men without 
l 


2 


THE WORLDLINGS 


capital or credit could arrive on the Diamond 
Fields and expect to make money honestly had 
already passed. He would soon be forty, and 
since he was seventeen the man had done his 
best. He had done the best that in him lay! he 
could maintain that. He had never neglected 
an opportunity, he had never committed a dis- 
honourable action, he had never shirked hard 
work — but he was a failure. To go to Kimber- 
ley had been his purpose for years, while he 
buffeted ill-luck in America; but it had been 
years before he could save the means to go. In 
the United States, as in Australia, his struggle 
towards fortune had ended in a cul-de-sac; 
Kimberley was still called the New Rush, and 
the thought of it had sustained his courage. He 
had hoarded, and scraped, and fulfilled his pur- 
pose at last. And he had come for this! 

He had pictured himself a digger, labouring 
with his own hands on his own claim, sweating, 
but hopeful. He found the mines apportioned 
among companies — in which men like himself 
could secure no closer interest than they could 
obtain in a coal-pit at home. He found that to 
the majority, Kimberley was less like a mining 
camp than a share market — which concerned him 
as little as the stock exchange in New York when 
he had trodden the Wall Street sidewalk. He 


THE WORLDLINGS 


3 


found that he had added another unit to the 
hundreds of Englishmen seeking a living wage, 
and had finally welcomed a situation that held 
no prospect of improvement. 

And he would soon be forty — the better half 
of his life had gone! He recalled the period 
when forty had been so far ahead that to fore- 
see himself a rich man by then had seemed a 
moderate expectation. [Recalled it ? It was only 
the other day! He had been twenty-five, with 
an eternity at his disposal; thirty, with a shock; 
thirty-five, and fighting against time. The flash 
of three sign-posts, and his youth was dead. Each 
succeeding year had been a clod on its coffin. 

“Macho!” he said to the blacks. It meant 
“Make haste”; it was nearly all the native vo- 
cabulary that he required. 

He was asking himself “How long?” What 
unimaginable turn of the wheel would liberate 
him? Money was not made by working for 
others unless one worked in a prominent posi- 
tion. The manager of the company had a thou- 
sand a year, though he could scarcely be thirty, 
and it was well known had never set eyes on a 
washing-machine, or a rough stone, until a few 
months before he strolled into the post. He wore 
a blue-and-white puggaree round his wide-awake, 
and a cummerbund in lieu of a belt, and flicked 


4 


THE WORLDLINGS 


his new Bedford cords with an unnecessary hunt- 
ing-crop; and he looked at the hauling-engine 
as if he feared it was going to explode. Yet he 
had a thousand a year; and he would buy scrip, 
and prosper, and go to England by-and-by to 
live in ease. But that had been influence — his 
brother had been manager before him, and had 
initiated him into the duties. The dealers who 
sat in their shirt-sleeves, sorting diamonds on 
white paper in the windows of their iron offices, 
would retire and go to England by-and-by; but 
to be a dealer required capital, and knowledge 
of the trade. The brokers who bustled in and 
out of the offices, netting commissions on their 
sales, might nurse hopes of England and dis- 
tant independence; but to be a broker required 
a license and a heavy guarantee. 

England! In two-and-twenty years his only 
glimpse of it had been in the few days passed 
in London the previous spring, after he had 
landed from America, preparatively to sailing 
for the Cape. The longing for it thrilled him. 
As he watched the Kaffirs and sweltered in the 
sun, he fancied what it would be like to be on 
the river, in flannels, lazying under the boughs; 
to be driving in a hansom among the lights of 
the West End; to taste the life of the kid-gloved 
men he had envied on those April evenings from 


THE WORLDLINGS 


5 


the pavement, as the cabs sped by him, bearing 
them to the restaurants, to the theatres, to 
women’s arms. 

“ Macho r he repeated perfunctorily. Then, 
noticing that some of the gang seemed half 
asleep: “Hi!” he cried. “What are you doing? 
That isn’t work, it’s rest!” 

At his tone their movements quickened, though 
his words were unintelligible to them, but after 
a few prods with their picks they grew comatose 
again. One of the squad, who called himself 
“Me Tom,” had been a kitchen-boy and could 
speak English. 

“Tell them,” said Maurice Blake to him, “that 
if they’re lazy, they won’t get full pay on Sat- 
urday; do you hear?” 

Me Tom nodded, and translated the warning, 
and the offenders answered all together at great 
length. 

“What do they say?” asked the overseer. 

“They say,” replied the native, “that the baas 
is a just baas; what he says is sense. They say 
they thank him that he not use the sjambok to 
them, or be cruel with his feet, or throw stones. 
He is a very good baas.” 

“Stop that rot,” said Blake; “I don’t want to 
hear any lies.” 

The negro raised an arm solemnly, with the 


6 


THE WORLDLINGS 


first and second fingers extended, and said: 
“Kors!” which signified “So help me, God!” He 
continued: “They say it is not because they lazy 
that they not work, baas , but because on Satur- 
day they start away, with their savings, and their 
blankets, and their guns as the baas must have 
often seen others start. They say they go back 
to their own country and they buy wives; and 
they will have daughters and much cattle — and 
they so sick with happiness that they cannot 
work, baas. Kors!” 

“I understand,” said Blake, slowly; he under- 
stood very well. “Tell them they must do their 
best.” 

So he was popular with the Kaffirs; he had 
not guessed it, nor thought about the matter. 

“Ask them,” he said now, “what they call me.” 

No white man on the floors was known to the 
niggers by his name — it was sufficient that an 
overseer should be a “baas” and a manager a 
“big baas” But among the blacks themselves 
their masters were always referred to by nick- 
names, and though, if these transpired, they sel- 
dom sounded to European ears very apt, proof 
was often afforded that to the native mind they 
were extraordinarily descriptive. When a party 
of Kaffirs tramped homeward, after the Fields 
had served their purpose, they met on the road 


THE W ORLDLIN GS 


7 


other parties, bound in their turn for the mines ; 
and then they who returned narrated to their 
compatriots the dangers they had passed, and 
uttered counsel, cautioning them against the man- 
ager who had flogged their brother to death, and 
commending the overseer under whom they had 
been able to steal klips. And so serviceable were 
the nicknames that, when the newcomers arrived, 
they identified the owners at sight and recog- 
nised the baas who was desirable, and the baas 
who should be shunned. 

“Well? Don’t be afraid,” exclaimed Blake, 
seeing that the interpreter looked bashful; “I 
want to know !” 

“They say,” said Me Tom, as if disclaiming 
all agreement with the sobriquet himself, “that 
they call the baas ‘The baas with square shoulders 
and hungry eyes.’ ” 

“Thanks,” said Blake. “Now you can get on; 
and put your back into it !” 

The burning glare of the day was gradually 
abating; the sun streamed across the sorting- 
shed now, turning the corrugated iron of the roof 
to fire. A breeze arose, hot as the breath of an 
oven, catching the dried tailings and blowing 
them across the floors in clouds that grew mo- 
mentarily denser. As it increased in force, the 
grit was volleyed in blinding gusts, hissing as it 


8 


THE WORLDLINGS 


swept near, and stinging the neck and hands. 
The atmosphere was darkened as if by fog; the 
doors of adjacent sheds slammed violently; and 
the neighing of the horses could be heard. But 
after half an hour the duststorm passed. 

Slowly, slowly, the sun dropped lower behind 
the sorting-shed; the grey of the diamondiferous 
ground lost its tinge of blue; and the screams 
of the engines announced that the day was done. 
Blake picked up his jacket and trudged down 
the barren road that wound to Market Square, 
and what served him for a home. His berth was 
in Bultfontein, and diggers and blacks still 
poured from the neighbouring mines of Du 
Toit’s Pan when he reached it. As he passed the 
veranda of the one-storied iron club he could 
hear the popping of corks, and the voices of men 
luckier than he in some approach to comfort; 
outside the canteens, and the tin shanties, made 
of the lining of packing-cases, the guttural cries 
of the niggers filled the air. Natives stood in 
groups everywhere, some with their blankets on, 
others still as they had left the works, shouting 
and gesticulating excitedly. An ox-wagon lum- 
bered through the deep dust of Main Street; on 
the stoep of the Carnarvon Hotel the proprietor 
and one of the visitors were fighting. After he 
had drunk a limejuice-and-soda, Blake walked 


THE WORLDLINGS 


9 


along Du Toit’s Pan Road till he came to his 
bedroom door; he unlocked it, and crossed the 
mud floor wearily. The heat had melted the can- 
dle till it drooped from the caruJLestick in a half- 
hoop and stuck to the waslihand-stand ; when he 
had straightened it, he washed. The washhand- 
stand and a truckle-bed furnished the room be- 
tween the corrugated iron walls, so he lay on the 
bed, and listened to the buzzing of a hundred 
flies, until the clash of a handbell summoned 
him to dinner. 

The boarders belonged to the lower ranks; 
most of them had overseers’ places like his own. 
A woman was rarely seen at a Diamond Fields 
hotel, but temporarily there were two women 
here. They were the wife and daughter of a 
cockney who had kept a Kaflir-store which had 
recently been destroyed by fire. The charge of 
arson had not been proved, and the family were 
returning to Southwark with the insurance 
money. The finger-nails of the assembly testi- 
fied to a laborious week, and Maurice, who knew 
none of them, hated them with an unreasoning 
rage. He ate with his eyes fixed upon his plate, 
about which the flies swarmed furiously; but he 
could not stop his ears, and, stimulated by the 
unaccustomed society of white women, the men 
grew humorous as the beer vanished. It was for 


10 


THE WORLDLINGS 


their “humour” that he cursed them. Habitude 
had steeled him to their adjectives, but under 
the sallies and the giggles of the third-class his 
nerves were taut. 

He finished his meal as hurriedly as usual, and 
caught up his hat. The moon had risen now, 
and the mounds of debris, which were all that 
relieved the flatness of the dreary view, gleamed 
like snow. He hailed a “cart,” for he felt too 
tired to walk into Kimberley this evening, and 
he must inquire how Jardine was. For the first 
time it occurred to him to wonder what he had 
done with his evenings before these visits to the 
house in Lennox Street became his habit. What 
had begun it ? There had been a melee in Carme’s 
Saloon one night, when the threat of wrecking 
the Kama Company’s machinery was in the air, 
but he didn’t quite remember how Jardine and 
he had come to leave the bar together. How- 
ever, the row had been his introduction to the 
only educated man he knew, or had a chance of 
knowing. 

Again Kimberley looked large and cheerful to 
him by comparison with the Pan, as the cart rat- 
tled into the electric light; but the air of cheer- 
fulness was only momentary, and after the prin- 
cipal thoroughfare the streets were empty and 
dark. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


11 


Maurice stopped the Hottentot driver at a 
wooden cottage with a stoep, and rapped at the 
door. A voice called to him to go in, and when 
he obeyed, he stood in the parlour. 

The construction was simple. The cottage con- 
sisted of one story, and was spacious enough to 
have formed a good-sized room. Two partitions, 
roughly covered with chintz, divided it into three, 
which served for sitting-room, bedroom, and 
kitchen. At the back was a small compound, 
where the washing hung, enclosed by a corru- 
gated iron fence. 

A woman in a rocking-chair had been reading 
by a paraffin lamp, and as he entered she put out 
her hand. 

“How is he?” asked Maurice. 

“He is bad,” she said. “He’s asleep now; 
don’t walk about — the more he can sleep the bet- 
ter. Come and sit down. I daresay he’ll wake 
before you go. I shall hear him if he moves.” 

“What does the doctor say?” 

“If he pulls through, the doctor advises a trip 
to the Colony; it’s easy to give advice, isn’t it? 
If we can’t manage that, ‘Alexandersfontein 
might pick him up.’ ” 

“They always advise men to leave the Fields 
after a bad attack of the fever,” he said. “I 


12 THE WORLDLINGS 

know; I had a touch of it myself soon after I got 
here.” 

He took a seat by the table, and for a few 
moments neither said any more. The woman was 
staring at nothing, her brows meeting in a frown, 
and her passionate mouth compressed. The 
wrapper she wore was discoloured, and her care- 
lessly coiled hair had come half unpimied; yet 
she was far from looking a mere handsome slut 
who had sunk to the surroundings, or a woman 
who was used to them. She had lived, perhaps, 
five-and- thirty years; and dressed as nature had 
designed her to dress — as once, probably, she had 
dressed — she would have been magnificent. 

“A month at Alexandersfontein wouldn’t cost 
a great deal,” said Maurice at last; “can’t it be 
worked, Mrs. Jardine?” 

“Do you know how broke we are?” she re- 
turned impatiently. “Have you any idea?” 

He shook his head. “I know things aren’t gay. 
Jardine never went into details.” 

“We have about nine pounds to-night; that’s 
our capital. There’s no reason why I should 
make a secret of it. Oh ! don’t look concerned — 
we shall rub along. But it will hardly run to a 
month’s hotel-bill, eh?” 

“No, it won’t run to a month’s hotel-bill,” he 
said; “I didn’t understand that things were so 


THE WORLDLINGS 


13 


bad as that. Well, I can manage to lend him a 
fiver, you know — I can lend it to him now. You’d 
better take it for him, will you?” 

“You’re down on your own luck,” she replied; 
“and I didn’t tell you for that. Besides, there’s 
— there’s just a chance of something big happen- 
ing. No, we won’t borrow from you before we’re 
obliged to; you shall lend us a few pounds later 
on, if there’s no other way. Now you’ll have a 
drink. Yes, you will!” she said decisively; “we 
aren’t so hard up that we haven’t a bottle of 
whisky in the house — we never are. Perhaps it 
would have been a good thing for Phil if we had 
been, sometimes. The girl brought in that jug 
of water just now — it’s quite cool.” 

“Shall I mix you some?” asked Maurice, fetch- 
ing the bottle and two tumblers. 

“Thanks. You know you can smoke? If you 
sit by the window he can’t smell it in the bed- 
room. It’s a lively state of things, isn’t it? This 
is the result of turning over a new leaf. While 
he knocked about in cities, Phil was right enough 
— he always fell on his feet somehow; but he 
really meant to put his shoulder to the wheel 
when we came to this heaven-forsaken country 
— he thought he was going to make money with 
an ostrich farm. An ostrich farm!” Her ges- 
ture told everything. “I shall hate the sight of 


14 * 


THE WORLDLINGS 


an ostrich feather to the day I die. Then he came 
up here, when he had lost all the dollars that 
would have given him a show ! What fools men 
are !” 

“A man’s always called a fool if he has bad 
luck,” he said; “and it’s the one sort of ‘folly’ 
that the world doesn’t make excuses for. ‘Put 
money in thy purse’ — and keep it there, for no- 
body will give you anything when it has gone. 
Here endeth the first lesson, and the last.” 

“That’s your philosophy?” she said. 

“That’s my philosophy, or part of it; there’s 
more that I’ve acquired too late. Succeed! it’s 
the only duty imposed on a man. Never mind 
how; succeed! It’s a desirable world while it 
turns the sunny side to you, but a clean record 
won’t pawn for much when you’re on your 
uppers.” 

“Have you ever had a good time?” inquired the 
woman curiously. “Have you always had to 
rough it — or did you come a cropper once?” 

“I never came a cropper in the sense you 
mean,” he said; “my father had made his money 
in business, and retired before I was born, and 
most of his fortune was dropped on the Stock 
Exchange in England when he was over sixty. 
He had brothers-in-law who wrote urging him to 
join them in mining operations with the few thou- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


15 


sands that remained. The young men were flat 
broke at the time and pretty desperate; the fig- 
ures they sent were very ingenious. He arranged 
to leave my sister behind with their mother — I 
was still at school — and we let him sail. I think 
the only advice we gave him was not to ‘suspect 
his partners’ — I thought I was very clever, little 
ass! We warned him that he had a ‘suspicious 
nature.’ . . . After they had robbed him, and 
the climate and the hardships had broken his 
health, he escaped to the coast, and my sister went 
out to him. He began to get stronger; he was 
happy there — pathetically happy, when one re- 
members that he was grudged even that! His 
remittances for her keep were missed in London 
— they had been very generous — and the old 
woman on one side, and her sons on the other, 
wrote upbraiding him for his weakness in ‘hang- 
ing back.’ ‘Hanging back’ was the term used. 
They were very scornful about his ‘hanging back’ ! 
he was told that it was very cowardly to want 
to live in comfort with his child. They got my 
sister sent home, and hounded him to the mines 
again.” 

“How old were you?” 

“I was sixteen. When he had very little more 
to lose, his brothers-in-law told him he had better 
go back to England and stay with their mother 


16 


THE WORLDLINGS 


himself. He stayed with their mother, and was 
overcharged and insulted, until she had had his 
last pound, and everything of value from his 
luggage. Then she turned him out. My sister 
had been brought up to look forward to a life of 
leisure and refinement, but she went to work — so 
did I; and we did the best we could for him. 
Between us we contrived to find fifteen shillings 
every week for "partial board in a musical family 
at Dalston.’ When I was eighteen I went 
abroad. My father was one of the best men that 
ever lived. He had given away large sums, and 
helped many people, and there wasn’t a day dur- 
ing his last five years on which he had enough to 
eat. The wretch who turned him out, and who 
had sponged on him from the hour he married, 
was the worst woman I have known — she had 
every vice except unchastity — and she stood high 
in her own esteem, and devoured delicacies to the 
end. I think that was when I began to see that 
the only moral contained by life is "Never be 
poor. 

“And your sister? Where is she now?” 

“My sister got a situation at a draper’s, and 
died in it before she was twenty-three.” 

He took his pipe from his pocket, and filled 
it moodily; and the woman lit a cigarette over 
the lamp. After a whiff, she said: 


THE WORLDLINGS 


n 


“I don’t think I ever met a man who spoke 
well of his father before. Phil hasn’t much rea- 
son to care a great deal about his!” 

“I didn’t know his father was alive,” he said, 
striking a match as far as possible from his 
nostrils. 

“No, he doesn’t talk about him to anyone.” 
She hesitated for a second, in a struggle with an 
impulse, and then, succumbing to it, added quick- 
ly: “Look here, I’ll tell you something, though 
I didn’t mean to yet! Phil’s father is a very 
rich man.” 

“Why doesn’t he send you some money then?” 
said Maurice. 

“Perhaps he will — that’s what I meant when 
I said there was a chance of something big hap- 
pening to us. But Phil left home when he was 
nineteen ; there was — I don’t know . . . Phil was 
wild. It doesn’t much matter after twenty — • 
how many? . . . Phil is forty-two. Besides, no- 
body heard anything about it — it was hushed up. 
Don’t you say anything about this to Phil!” 

“I never give away a confidence,” he said. 
“Well?” 

“Well, his passage was paid to Melbourne, 
and he was to draw a bit every month on con- 
dition that he never went hack to England — it 
was very little, for his father wasn’t well off in 


18 


THE WORLDLINGS 


those days. After about eight years the pay- 
ments stopped; the old man had had losses, or 
got tired of the game. Phil was dead sick of the 
country, and he’d had a fluke, so he went to the 
States. I met him in San Francisco. Well, a 
few months ago the old man, who’s nearly eighty, 
came into a baronetcy. Phil’s father is Sir Noel 
J ardine now, with about twenty thousand a year.” 

“Good Lord!” said Maurice. “Is the prop- 
erty entailed?” 

“Yes, sir! And, anyhow, Phil was the only 
child he had — and there’s nobody else to succeed. 
I was bound to tell you — I couldn’t keep it in 
any longer. I’m waiting for the answer to a cable 
we sent last month; and if it comes — Scott! if it 
comes, we shall go to London, and I shall wear 
proper frocks and hats again, and lace, and furs, 

and diamonds, and drive in the Park, and ” 

She had risen at the thought, her dark eyes shin : 
ing with excitement, and she paused with a morti- 
fied laugh: “I look like lace and diamonds to- 
night, don’t I?” she said bitterly. “Where’s my 
drink? Have another, and wish us luck!” 

“What’s the principal doubt?” he said; “why 
shouldn’t an answer come? Isn’t your husband 
in correspondence with his father?” 

“It was stipulated that there should be no cor- 
respondence when Phil was shipped off. He 


THE WORLDLINGS 


19 


wrote once, about five years ago, just after we 
came out here; but he didn’t get any answer, 
and he has never written since.” 

“But you say the old man hadn’t come into 
the property five years ago ; the property’ll make 
a difference.” 

“Yes, that’s why we hope he mayn’t be so 
vindictive now. And our cable would have 
thawed stone. I say ‘ours,’ but of course Sir 
Noel doesn’t know anything about me. We 
couldn’t have many words because of the ex- 
pense, but they were such touching words ; Phil 
did laugh! Do you think it looks bad that we 
haven’t heard yet?” 

“Has there been time for a reply?” 

“Not by letter, no — that’s only due by this 
mail — but he could have cabled; he could have 
cabled the money, and we should have been on 
the sea by now, and Phil wouldn’t have caught 
camp-fever! But then he’s mean — Phil says he 
was always mean — a draft would be so much 
cheaper; Phil didn’t expect a cable. Listen — 
he’s awake! Wait a moment. I’ll see if you can 
go in.” 

She hurried into the bedroom, and through the 
open door Maurice could hear her say: “Well, 
you’ve been asleep. Let me turn the pillow for 
you.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


20 


The other tones were indistinct. 

So Jardine was the son of a baronet — the in- 
telligence had been rather startling — and, sup- 
plying the dots and crosses, he had done some- 
thing dishonest in the past? Well, so many men 
had! and the remembrance didn’t seem to haunt 
them much. “Remorse” was what the well- 
meaning attributed to the unscrupulous, to con- 
sole you for their success — an invention of the 
optimists, to restore the balance! And it had 
happened ages ago, and nobody had known. If 
he recovered, Jardine would doubtless go home 
now, and lounge in the club windows, and admire 
the prospect of twenty thousand a year. What a 
life was awaiting him; how incredible a change! 

The sick man’s thoughts were evidently flow- 
ing in the same channel, and on a sudden his 
voice reached the parlour thinly: 

“Cable to the governor,” he was saying; “cable 
to the governor. Nearly eighty, and lived them 
all out! . . . Twenty thousand a year, what a 
splash! . . . My God! . . . Can’t take it with 
him! Rosa, where’s Rosa? Why don’t you send 
the cable?” 

“Yes, old boy, I’m here. The cable has gone; 
it’s all right.” 

Then for a few seconds there was a low mut- 
tering, which sank to silence. 


THE WORLDLINGS 




After some minutes had passed, the woman re- 
appeared in the doorway, with her finger to her 
lips, and Maurice rose cautiously to meet her 
whisper. 

“He’s going off again; he was delirious — I 
think I’d better stop there.” 

“Good-night, then,” he murmured; “I’ll come 
in to-morrow.” 

She nodded. “Yes, come to-morrow. Good- 
night.” 

She let him out as noiselessly as she could, 
and he stole across the stoep on tiptoe into the 
street. 


CHAPTER II 


At sunset the following evening rain began to 
fall, and it fell in floods. Kimberley was inac- 
cessible; the horses of the Cape carts, making 
for shelter, were swept off their feet, and a boiler 
outside Tarry’s was washed down the sluit. For- 
ty-eight hours had passed when Maurice reached 
the cottage in Lennox Street again; and the col- 
oured girl, who chopped the wood, and did the 
cooking, was leaving for home. 

“Oh, Mr. Blake, sir, it’s all over — he’s gone!” 
she faltered, stopping. 

Partially prepared though he had been to hear 
it, there was still the shock. He whitened a lit- 
tle, and strove to disguise that he was moved. 

“Where’s your missis?” he said. “Can I see 
her?” 

“She’s inside,” answered the girl; and Maurice 
pushed past her and entered. 

The lamp had not been lighted, and for the 
first instant he thought the parlour was empty. 
Then he went forward, with his hand out- 
stretched. 


22 


THE WORLDLINGS 


m 

44 What can I say?*’ he said. ‘'You under- 
stand; don’t you?” 

The woman lifted her face from the sofa where 
she was lying, and he could see even in the 
shadow that she was disfigured with weeping. 

“He died yesterday afternoon,” she said un- 
steadily. “How did you hear?” 

“The servant just told me. I — I’m so sorry. 
... If I’m not too late, you must let me do what 
has to be done,” he continued after a pause. “You 
haven’t anybody to turn to here.” 

“Not here nor anywhere else!” she said, rais- 
ing herself slowly. “Light the lamp, will you? 
I can’t see where anything is.” 

He did as she wished, and sought awkwardly 
for some phrase of consolation. The despair in 
her manner perturbed him, for he had never cred- 
ited her with the devotion that would explain it, 
and he was doubtful whether he was asked to 
attribute it to the loss of her husband, or the loss 
of her expectations. Her tone when she spoke 
next relieved him. 

“Look,” she said, pointing to an envelope on 
the mantelpiece; “the mail is in. I sent the girl 
to the post-office to-day, and his father had writ- 
ten! He sends a hundred pounds and wants him 
back. Look!” 

She thrust the envelope into his hands and he 


THE WORLDLINGS 


24 

read the contents. The note that accompanied 
the draft — it could not be called a letter — was a 
little formal, he thought, even in the circum- 
stances, a little stilted: the note of an old man; 
but it was not unkindly couched. The heading 
— Croft Court, Oakenhurst, Surrey — suggested 
vague splendours to his mind. 

“That’s rough,” he said, returning the papers. 
“And it came too late for your husband to know !” 

She made a movemnet of impatience. “Phil 
wouldn’t have known even if the mail had come 
in yesterday; he was unconscious for hours be- 
fore he died. Rough? Why, yes, it’s pretty 
rough, isn’t it? If the money had been cabled, 
or if we had only cabled a month before we did 

Well, it’s no good talking about that! — we 

cabled as soon as we happened to read the news 
— that’s not what I blame myself for.” 

“What then?” he said; “what can you blame 
yourself for, Mrs. Jardine?” 

She made no answer. She began to wander 
about the room, her handkerchief bitten between 
her teeth. 

“You won’t be penniless,” he said. “His fa- 
ther will do something for you. If he was ready 
to make it up with his son, he’ll hardly turn his 
back on the widow. He won’t let you starve, 
Mrs. Jardine.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


25 


“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me that,” 
she burst out ; “it’s not my name ! Call me Mrs. 
Fleming. I’m Rosa Fleming, that’s what my 
name is I . . . Now do you see?” 

“Oh, remarked Maurice, “yes, I see. That 
makes it rougher.” 

“Phil was going to marry me,” she went on 
vehemently; “if he’d lived, he’d have married 
me! I could have been his wife a year ago if 
I’d liked — tw T o years ago — but I didn’t care; 
there was no reason for it; what did it matter 
then? Oh, if I could have seen ahead! What a 
fool I was! what a fool, what a fool! And now, 
I tell you, he’d have married me if he’d got well; 
and I should have been Lady Jardine soon. And 
he dies, he dies, just when he’s wanted, after I’ve 
stuck to him for years!” She stood still, and 
seemed to try to repress her excitement. “Have 
you got any courage?” she said. He looked an 
inquiry. “Have you got any courage?” she re- 
peated. “I’ve something to propose to you. I 
don’t suppose for a moment that you’ll do it; but 
don’t cry out that it’s ‘impossible’ when I tell 
you ! I’ve been thinking of it all day, and it isn't 
impossible; it’s as easy as falling off a log. Will 
you go back to England in Phil’s place?” 

“WiU I ?” He sat staring at her. “How?” 


26 


THE WORLDLINGS 


. . . But he saw how. The consciousness that it 
might be done was throbbing in him. 

“Who would have any suspicion?” she said 
eagerly; “you know how much alike you were! 
Do you think, after twenty-three years, an old 
man who is expecting him — who is expecting 
him, mind you — is going to tell the difference?” 

“The old man isn’t everyone,” he murmured; 
“there’d be some relation, with hopes, who 
wouldn’t be satisfied so easily. . . . Besides, I’ve 
always run straight. Leaving the risk aside, I 
— I’ve always run straight.” 

“Haven’t I told you that there isn’t any rela- 
tion to succeed him ? Oh, if you won’t do it, say 
so at once, but for heaven’s sake don’t argue. I 
know! I know that the father is the only rela- 
tive Phil had alive — I know it for a fact. There 
is no earthly reason why you should be doubted. 
I don’t think that either of you ever realised how 
great the likeness was. Did I show you that 
article on ‘people with doubles’ ? They were cele- 
brated people, with the names of the doubles un- 
der their pictures. There wasn’t a case of a 
stronger resemblance than yours to Phil, not one ! 
He was stouter than you, his nose widened more, 
there was some grey in his beard; but the shape 
of your foreheads, of your faces, the colour of 
your eyes, and the way they were set, all the 


THE WORLDLINGS 


n 

points that matter were the same. If you had 
trimmed your beards and done your hair the same 
way, I believe you could have passed for one an- 
other anywhere. If the old man saw no likeness 
in you to the boy he remembers at nineteen, he 
would have doubted Phil himself!” 

He did not speak ; he sat smoking furiously. 

“I can tell you everything,” she said, pacing 
the room again; “I know all his life. If I had 
never heard it before, I should have heard it all 
a hundred times over in the last month. After 
we read of the succession, he talked of nothing 
else. Hour after hour he has sat where you are 
sitting now, and maundered about his boyhood. 
I can tell you about his cousin Guy who was 
drowned, and his cousin Minnie that he was in 
love with ; and that Minnie married a civil engi- 
neer, and went to Canada, and died in Montreal. 
I can tell you about the row with his father when 
he was expelled from school, and another row 
when he ran away from home, and pawned the 
watch that his father had left at a jeweller’s to 
be cleaned; and that his father engaged a tutor 
for him, and dismissed the tutor — who w T as called 
Benson — because he found out that Benson and 
Phil used to go on the spree together. I — good- 
ness, what couldn’t I tell you!” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


28 

“Could you tell me what he did,” said the man, 
“that his father washed his hands of him?” 

“No,” she admitted, “that I don’t know quite; 
he was never explicit about that.” 

“So it must have been bad. I should be taking 
a name that has been disgraced.” 

“But it was kept quiet,” she put in quickly; 
“I do know that. It was between his father and 
him. Not a soul heard — I can swear it!” 

“You mean he swore it. But he may have 

” He remembered suddenly that Jardine lay 

in the next room dead, and checked himself. “It 
mayn’t have been true,” he added. 

“Why should he have deceived me about it? 
There was no motive: it made no difference to 
me one way or the other. No, if his father hadn’t 
hushed the thing up, I think Phil would have 
been rather glad to say so; he was always glad 
to say as much against his father as he could.” 

He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and re- 
filled it, and she watched him till the tobacco was 
fairly aglow. 

“Anyhow,” he demurred again, “his father 
knew! I should be in the dark about the princi- 
pal event.” 

“Is it likely that Phil would have referred to 
it himself if he’d gone back? If anybody raked 


THE WORLDLINGS 29 

it up, it would be Sir Noel. It wouldn’t be diffi- 
cult to make appropriate answers.” 

“You say there were no relations,” he said 
meditatively; “but there are other people. There 
must be lawyers, friends, servants, half a hun- 
dred people who knew him before he went 
abroad?” 

“Before he was nineteen! And there would be 
very few. Remember that his father wasn’t Sir 
Noel then. He lived in a house in Adelaide Road 
— if you know where that is — and never dreamt 
of anything better. Amd Phil was away at school 
most of the time, too. Even if any old friends 
visit the Baronet, there can hardly be one that 
it would need much nerve to face. Oh!” she ex- 
claimed, “how can you hesitate? Think what it 
is: Croft Court and everything to be yours — 
yours! Do you grasp what it means? I tell you 
I can post you up in every detail enough for a 
witness-box, far more than enough for what’s re- 
quired. It’s so simple, there’s nothing to be done. 
You haven’t to turn anyone out, there’s nobody 
to fight your claim — it isn’t like the Tichborne 
case. Why, if it’s necessary I can declare that 
I’ve known you as ‘Philip Jardine’ for the last 
ten years!” 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said; 
“it wouldn’t be convincing, and you’d be wise to 


SO 


THE WORLDLINGS 


take your share of the loot, and not show in the 
matter at all. ... If anything went wrong then, 
it would all fall on me, and you wouldn’t be in- 
dicted for conspiracy. What is it you suggest?” 

She flashed a glance of appreciation. “Do you 
mean what share? Give me a quarter, and a 
chance to make as good a match as Phil would 
have been! That’s all I want. A quarter of 
everything as long as I live, and to be introduced 
into society.” Her tongue dwelt lovingly on the 
word. “Is it fair?” 

“Yes, I should think it would be quite fair,” 
he said, “if I committed the fraud. Well, I’ll 
think about it. You don’t expect me to say more 
than that to-night?” 

She had not originally expected that he would 
say so much, nor had he ; he trembled as he real- 
ised the enormity of his defection. Yet the sen- 
sation was exhilarating rather than unpleasant. 
He perceived with a vague self -wonder that the 
reluctance he felt was due, less to the horror of 
dishonesty, which he had always believed uncon- 
querable, than to a sentimental aversion from 
profiting by the other man’s loss. He was also 
aware that he was combating the reluctance. 
Then the recollection pierced him that he had 
offered to arrange for the burial, and in the mo- 
ment that the thought came, all desire to em- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


01 


brace her suggestion fell from him. He was 
thrilled by the hideousness of the course that he 
had contemplated and tried to believe that he had 
been guilty of nothing but a temporary aberra- 
tion. With great difficulty he forced himself to 
approach the subject of the interment, and his 
relief was intense when he heard that nothing 
remained for him to do. 

“Would you care to see him before you got ” 
inquired the woman in a low voice. 

He did not know how she could ask him such 
a question ; he shook his head and shuddered. It 
seemed to her rather brutal of him. But men 
were like that ! For herself, the bitterness, which 
had had its birth in her despair, had faded as the 
despair decreased, and she could think of Jar- 
dine’s faults with pity. 

Maurice took leave of her, and went back to 
Clacy’s Hotel, and pondered. Before he slept the 
day was breaking, and when he made his way to 
Bultfontein he felt but half awake. The con- 
versation of the preceding evening seemed to 
have occurred a long while ago, and in the raw 
light the proposal no longer dazzled him nor 
looked feasible. It was only as the hours wore 
by that the spell reasserted itself in part. He 
was not considering acquiescence now, but the 
thought that he might acquiesce if he would 


THE WORLDLINGS 


38 

lifted some of the despondence from his heart. 
As he stood watching the rising and falling of 
the niggers’ picks in the burning glare of the sun, 
a touch of buoyancy was communicated to his 
mood by the knowledge that the chance was there. 
It was there. Release was possible if he chose 
to accept it. It was in his own power to be done 
with all this to-morrow, to-day! He might turn 
from this grey waste of ground, if he would, and 
never look on it again. He could go to England, 
to prosperity, to a life of pleasure, at the risk 

of Yes, at the risk of penal servitude! But 

the probability of detection was not very great, 
he opined; he knew that it was not fear of ex- 
posure that was deterring him, but the fear of 
his own conscience. He would be a swindler! 
No! he was beside himself to consider the pros- 
pect. . . . 

Yet he could go if he would! And there was 
no heir to the property; he wouldn’t be wronging 
anyone — only the Crown, something impersonal, 
an abstraction. If he failed, he would pay the 
penalty of his act; and if he succeeded, the suf- 
fering, should there be any, would be his, too. 
What duty was owed to anyone but himself in 
the matter? Did he owe anything to the com- 
munity — the “community” that meant a multi- 
tude of self-centred individuals amongst whom 


THE WORLDLINGS 


33 


he had starved, the community that was as a wall 
of indifference against which he had beaten his 
hands until they bled? He might have grasped 
ease and risen beyond the reach of this tempta- 
tion, if the guiding principles of the community 
had been his own — if he had walked through 
muddy waters, and climbed dirty ladders, and 
sacrificed his scruples to expedience! 

But “no,” and again “no” ! The day dragged 
on, and the sun sank behind the sorting-shed, and 
he tramped along the dusty road once more, still 
telling himself that he would not do it. He told 
himself so as he ate his dinner amid the badinage 
of the overseers and the cockney’s wife and 
daughter; and he said it while the riot of their 
laughter reached him after he had sought peace 

in his room. He would not do it; and yet * 

His yearning shook him, and he caught his 
breath. . . . 

He remembered that Mrs. Fleming was wait- 
ing for his answer; he would not go to her until 
he had decided! If he refused, his refusal must 
be steadfast, proof against persuasion. If he 
agreed, he would agree because it was his will. 
There should be no reproach attaching to her 
afterwards for having overruled him. He would 
do the thing of his own determination; doggedly 


THE WORLDLINGS 


34 

— saying “yes” because he had meant to say 
“yes”; choosing his path, and taking it. 

She was waiting for him in suspense. J ardine 
had been buried that afternoon, and as she paced 
the parlour, she was questioning if the name on 
the coffin had put an obstacle in the way of the 
scheme. The thought frightened her ; but it was 
not an uncommon name, and no one had known 
him. He would be one stranger more who had 
dropped out of the bars, that was all. Left or 
dead; nobody would inquire, or comment on his 
absence. Surely it couldn’t matter? The fever 
of her inspiration had passed, and she felt feeble; 
she felt that she wanted a man’s mind to lean 
on now, someone who would conduct the affair 
for her, and be authoritative and sanguine. She 
recalled men who would have shown their best 
qualities in such a situation. 

Would Blake consent? If he were afraid, 
what should she do with herself? She had been 
in equal straits more than once, and she looked 
back at them for encouragement, but the woman 
seemed somebody else ; she wondered how she had 
been so brave. She saw dimly the time when she 
had lived on fifteen shillings a week in Islington, 
and worn a fashionable frock, which did not be- 
long to her, in the race-scene at a theatre. She 
had been seventeen then, and life was all before 


THE WORLDLINGS 


$5 

her. Though she was only one of the “extra 
girls,” Fleming had married her. Poor Harry! 
If he had lived, perhaps he would have been a 

big actor to-day, and she ? She had been so 

helpless, left without money in New York. What 
memories! The situation in the cigar-store on 
Third Avenue . . . her own flat in East Thir- 
teenth Street, where the first flats in New York 
had just been built. That was in ’67, and she was 
twenty years old. O beautiful time when she was 
twenty! If only she had known as much as she 
knew now! . . . Travel; at her wits’ end in 
Caracas — the result of a caprice. . . . California, 
Phil. What her life had held! Was it all to be- 
gin again? Here, in this desert at the world’s 
end? She was no longer so young, and then she 
had not been dashed from the summit of expecta- 
tion. All of her past emotions that were vivid 
to her were those of the last month, the daily, 
hourly thought of wealth and position. In fancy 
she had lived in Mayfair, and bought dresses and 
jewels, and entered ballrooms, holding her head 
high among the best women in England. She 
had foretasted their envy, and the admiration of 
the men. The scent of the flowers had been in 
her nostrils, and she had seen the lights, and 
heard her carriage called. And now there was 


86 


THE WORLDLINGS 


nothing, and she was left like Cinderella in her 
rags! 

It was ten o’clock when a Cape cart stopped 
outside the cottage. She ran to the door. Mau- 
rice sprang out, and came into the room quickly. 
His face was white, and his voice quivered a 
little. “I’ll do it!” he said. 

She gave a gasp of relief, and began to cry, 
and he took her hands and told her that they 
were going to succeed, and that she musn’t break 
down now that it was settled. Then he made her 
drink some whisky, and swallowed some himself, 
and she uttered her misgiving. 

“ You won’t Lave a stone on the grave,” he said, 
“you wouldn’t be able to pay for one in any case; 
and you needn’t publish an announcement of the 
death. There’s nothing in the rest. Where is 
the draft? I shall have to endorse that.” 

She drew it from her pocket, and he read it 
again: 

“ ‘At sight — Philip Noel Jardine — one hun- 
dred pounds.’ I’ll bring you the money as soon 
as I get it.” 

“Will your writing do?” she asked anxiously. 
“I had forgotten your having to sign.” 

“The bank doesn’t know his signature, does 
it?” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


37 


“Oh, no,” she exclaimed; “I’m losing my 
head!” 

“Well, if there’s any difficulty about the hand- 
writing, it won’t be here — it will be afterwards, 
when we’re in England. But we depend on the 
likeness — that’s what we’re pinning our faith to. 
If there was as strong a likeness as we think, 
we needn’t worry much about anything else.” 

His composure had returned, and the coolness 
with which he found himself able to calculate 
probabilities, now that his resolution had been 
made, seemed strange to him. They talked till 
late. Jardine had taken the cottage, furnished, 
for six months, on his arrival, and the final pay- 
ment was due. It was arranged that on the mor- 
row Rosa should see the agent and satisfy his 
claim. But the cost of a passage to England was 
large, and the remittance had been designed for 
only one person ; therefore ways and means were 
a serious consideration. They must not land 
without a few pounds in their pockets; after 
reaching London the man would proceed to Sur- 
rey, and the woman must have money to stay at 
some little hotel in town while she awaited assist- 
ance from him. On the steamer, and wherever 
it was possible, they would have to travel second- 
class. 

“And there are the last two visits of the doc- 


THE 5V0RLDLINGS 


$8 

tor,” she said; “there are the doctor and the Un- 
dertaker, besides the rent. And there’s the girl l 
there’s a pound due to her. Is it necessary to 
settle with everyone, do you think?” 

“I would, if I were you,” he said. “Fve saved 
a tenner, and if we go at once, I shall have some- 
thing left out of this week’s screw — oh, I should 
pay up!” He did not perceive the anomaly, but 
he was embarking on a gigantic fraud, and the 
idea of not “paying up” was repugnant to him. 

The next day was Saturday, and his wages 
would be ‘forthcoming at two o’clock. But, if he 
waited till two o’clock the bank would have closed 
before he reached it. Even if he authorised an- 
other oversee to collect the wages, he would not 
be able to reach the bank soon enough, unless he 
left the floors surreptitiously during the morning. 
He wouldn’t do that, so he -did not cash the draft 
until Monday. 

It was his first keen pang — and the first time 
that he had been inside a bank for years. The 
clerk made the stereotyped inquiry, and he “took 
it” in ten-pound notes. Nobody noticed him when 
he passed into Main Street, and he was vaguely 
surprised that he didn’t look conspicuous : he had 
come out a thief. His life of struggle, and his 
day and night’s resistance were now as nothing; 
the plunge had been made! 


THE WORLDLINGS 


89 

He went with the money to Mrs. Fleming im- 
mediately, and in the afternoon she drove out to 
the agent’s. On the way back she stopped at a 
draper’s, and bought a yard of black ribbon to 
twist in the place of the red roses that she was 
wearing in her hat. Some sign of mourning! in 
a white frock she would not feel heartless. Sud- 
denly it struck her that if Maurice’s linen bore 
his initials, they must be altered ; and on her re- 
turn she cried to him that the oversight might 
have ruined all their plans. It was a disappoint- 
ment to her to hear that the point had already 
occurred to him, but that the only marks his linen 
had borne for at least a decade were the hiero- 
glyphics sewn upon it by the laun dress. 

Maurice engaged two second-class berths in 
the name of “Mrs. Fleming” and “Philip Jar- 
dine,” and their preparations were made with 
haste. There was then a six days’ journey by a 
ramshackle coach before the railway was reached, 
and three mornings later, while the dust blew 
down Stockdale Street in clouds, he and she were 
among the twelve passengers who started for the 
Colony. 

To both the man and woman that journey 
seemed eternal. Their one engrossing thought 
could not be spoken, and there was little con- 
versation to divert them. Hour after hour they 


40 


THE WORLDLINGS 


jolted over the barren plains in silence. Often 
the bones of a horse lay bleached by the road- 
side, picked by the vultures; sometimes a herd 
of springbok bounded from their approach in 
fear. Opposite Maurice an elderly Boer whit- 
tled biltong almost incessantly, stuffing it into 
his mouth with filthy fingers; and indeed there 
were few opportunities for anyone to wash. The 
squalid houses were far apart, and the accom- 
modation provided for the travellers was barely 
possible. Occasionally nothing remained to eat 
but what the inmates had just left upon the table 
— some stiffening stew, and sour, brown bread, 
and rancid butter. Once, when the mules had 
just been outspanned, and rolled on their backs 
in the dust, A urice drew near to her. They 
were for the moment alone, and he was athirst 
to hear their project voiced. Temporarily, how- 
ever, her meditations had taken another turn, and 
all she said was, “Do I look very dirty ?” At 
night they tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep in 
the hovels — the women sometimes outside a bed, 
and the men below, stretched on their rugs on the 
floor; but their rest was brief, and the shout of 
the driver wakened them to gulp scalding coffee, 
and jolt away, across the veldt again, through the 
dawn. 

At last Beaufort West and the luxury of a 


THE WORLDLINGS 


41 


railway-compartment was reached; and after a 
day and a night in the train, Maurice and she 
drove out of the Cape Town station. 

On the steamer, discussion of their scheme was 
practicable, and they rarely talked of anything 
else. She had not exaggerated when she declared 
that she could furnish him with a host of particu- 
lars of the career of the man whose character he 
was assuming; and though most of them per- 
tained to the period of her acquaintance with 
Jar dine, and were not calculated to gratify his 
father, those that had reference to his boyhood 
were numerous too. Maurice felt that if he were 
accepted on his entry, he would be secure. 

He had made his choice, and when a qualm 
came — for qualms did come, thq^h he would not 
let her know it — he repeated t^e fact. He had 
made his choice — and deliberately, in possession 
of all his senses. He had no excuse to humour 
his conscience now! Even if he were to break 
the compact and refuse to proceed any further 
with the undertaking, he would still have stolen; 
he would not be honest again, he would only be 
a coward. He had never pitied the criminals 
who canted after they had committed the deed. 
He strove to put compunction from him as reso- 
lutely as he had striven to put away temptation. 
When you had taken a hand, you played it out; 


THE WORLDLINGS 


42 

if you couldn’t afford the game, you shouldn’t 
have sat down! Nor save in moments did he 
regret the step. 

Far more frequent than moments of regret 
were those of passionate foretaste. The woman 
had seen herself “Lady Jardine,” but the man’s 
imagination seldom extended an equal distance. 
It intoxicated him enough to picture himself in 
the position of the heir. Almost he was sorry 
that a title was in question. Money was all he 
wanted; if Sir Noel had been a stockbroker and 
lived in a West-central square, the situation 
would have been easier to conceive. “Croft 
Court” rang rather alarmingly; what were such 
places like? His only idea of them had been 
gathered from the illustrated papers. He be- 
lieved them to L behind gates bearing heraldic 
devices of deep significance. Good heavens, 
would he be expected to understand heraldry? 

Yet success would give him this Cr'oft Court 
for his own one day, and twenty thousand a year ! 
As the steamer throbbed on and he watched the 
wide glitter of the sea, he tried to realise what 
it would mean. Ten would have conveyed as 
much to him; thirty would have dazzled him no 
more. Twenty thousand a year, less Rosa Flem- 
ing’s share ! Drunk with excitement, and behold- 
ing in fancy the fulfilment of all that he had 


THE WORLDLINGS 


43 


ached for, he was not spending half of such a 
rent-roll, and he knew it. He could not con- 
jecture what he would do with wealth like that, 
what anybody could do with it; it looked limit- 
less. He saw luxury, extravagance, wild months 
in the gayest of the capitals, costly presents to 
beautiful women — but fifteen thousand a year to 
squander as he pleased! To contemplate it diz- 
zied him. 

The weeks lagged heavily, and his suspense 
grew almost intolerable. He was on fire to ar- 
rive, to put his effrontery to the test, to know 
that he had won or lost. It appeared to him 
that the voyage had occupied months, and the 
monotonous pulsations of the engines that he 
could not accelerate by a single beat became mad- 
dening to him. ;j 

The last of the stoppages until Plymouth was 
reached occurred at Madeira; but the fares did 
not include free railway-tickets, and to Rosa and 
him the passage would end only with the London 
docks. 

It was on a dull afternoon that they were in 
sight, and as the vessel floated alongside the quay, 
his throat tightened. She and he leant with 
others over the taffrail; like him she was very 
pale. The crowd about them were looking 
eagerly for expected faces, and from a group 


THE WORLDLINGS 


44 

ashore a cheer came up ; it seemed to her a good 
omen. 

“I’m glad of that 1” she said. “Have you got 
the wire?” 

He nodded; he was telegraphing to the Baro- 
net. He had written: “With you this evening 
—Phil.” 

“We’re near the crisis now!” she murmured. 

“Yes,” he said. 

There were the final delays, and then the gang- 
way was made fast, and they stood in England, 
waiting for their luggage to be swung down. 
When they were free to depart they rattled to a 
private hotel in Bloomsbury that had been ad- 
vertised in the ship’s copy of the “A.B.C.,” and 
here the woman elected to remain for the present. 

The next train to Oakenhurst was found to 
leave Waterloo at 5.15, and, as he had plenty of 
time to spare, they ordered a meal for two in 
the dreary coffee-room, where they were the only 
visitors. 

The fire had burnt low, and the room was very 
chilly. A husky waiter brought them an over- 
cooked steak, and they sat at the table by the 
window, talking desultorily, while dusk gathered 
in the street. When Maurice had promised re- 
peatedly that at the earliest moment possible she 
^should hear what happened, their pauses were 


THE WORLDLINGS 


45 


very frequent; all that they could say yet had 
been said so often. 

Nevertheless, after a hansom had been stopped 
and he had got inside, their eyes met as if both 
were consicous that it was only words that were 
lacking. She had gone to the door with him, and 
then followed him to the kerb. 

“You won’t forget to send a quarter of the 
money,” she whispered, “as soon as you get some? 
Remember this won’t be enough for the week’s 
bill!” 

“A quarter of everything! depend on me. Are 
you sure it satisfies you?” 

“Give me a quarter of all you get, and I’ll 
end a duchess!” she said. “Luck!” 

“Luck!” he said; and the cab sped away into 
the roar. 

He looked out at London and realised that he 
was here. The figures in the streets could still 
be distinguished, for the tradesmen had not low- 
ered their shutters yet. It was London, with its 
shining shops, its moving multitude. The brutal 
black city was fair in his sight, even as Friday’s 
sister would have been fair to Crusoe. The best 
of it might be his at last! . . . By audacity and 
deceit? Well — he set his teeth — they were the 
weapons of the world, and it had been the world 
against him! 


CHAPTER III 


Since the change of trains at six o’clock, the 
journey had been painfully slow, and now he 
glanced at the name on the white board again, 
to assure himself that he had actually arrived. 
Across the palings of the little gravelled station 
the view was dark and dispiriting, and after two 
labourers had crossed the line, he, and the youth 
who took his ticket, had the platform to them- 
selves. No conveyance was waiting, the youth 
said firmly, but it was conceded, in colloquy with 
a companion who answered to “Hi, Jock,” that 
a trap might be obtained. 

Croft Court was about two miles distant, and 
Oakenhurst — or as much of it as the few widely- 
divided lamps permitted Maurice to see from the 
trap — looked forlorn. The place seemed to him 
to consist of long black roads, punctuated by 
the glimmer of saddened ale-houses. 

It had often occurred to him that he might 
address the wrong man as “Father,” if any other 
were present, and he was considering the possi- 
bility of the blunder again when the lodge gates 
were reached. He reverted to the conviction that 
46 


THE WORLDLINGS 


4T 

the Baronet would desire to be alone at such a 
time, but in the drive through the long avenue 
his heart beat thickly. He had been unprepared 
for the size of the house, and the appearance of 
the dim quadrangle staggered him. The driver 
pulled up at an entrance that suggested a mon- 
astery; and when Maurice was admitted, before 
the bell ceased clanging, his glimpse of the in- 
terior startled him almost as much as the ap- 
proach. 

An instant, however, sufficed to show him that 
it was a servant who had hastened to the door. 

“Where’s Sir Noel?” he said. “Tell him I’m 
here — say ‘his son’ 1” 

He strode inside as he spoke ; and then he saw, 
in the great wainscoted hall, with its Gobelins 
tapestries — which were strange to him — and its 
antlers, and its helmets, and its breast-plates, a 
frail, old man in a frock-coat, who peered eagerly 
at his face. 

“Father!” cried Maurice; and the old man 
came forward, with extended hand. 

“Philip,” he said, “is it Philip? Well, well!” 
He stood gazing at him wonderingly. “Philip, I 
shouldn’t have known you! . . . And yet — 
y-e-s, yes, I can — I can see. ... So Philip has 
come back!” His tone changed to one of quick 
impatience. “Well, well, well, don’t let us stand 


48 


THE WORLDLINGS 


here, come into the room ! Where’s Cope? Take 
Mr. Philip’s things, Cope — Mr. Philip’s things!” 

Maurice drew a deep breath, and followed. 
The table was laid for dinner, and in the grate, 
between two life-size marble figures, which his 
mythology did not enable him to identify, a fire 
was roaring. He warmed his hands before he 
spoke. 

“I’m glad to see you again,” he said. “You 
have changed, too; it’s a long time since I went 
away.” 

The old man nodded. 

“Twenty-three years,” he said. “A long time 
— yes, a long time! You wouldn’t have recog- 
nised me, I suppose?” 

“Oh, Lord, yes, I should have recognised you,” 
said Maurice; “and how are you? all right in your 
health?” 

“So, so,” said Sir Noel, adjusting his pince- 
nez, and examining him; “I — I am not a young 
man, you know; but I am all right excepting for 
a bronchial cough. Well, well, well, what do you 
stand for? Why don’t you sit down? You must 
be hungry, eh? — dinner’ll be ready directly. I 
expected you in time for dinner, but if you had 
said what train you had chosen, I would have 
sent the carriage to meet you. Why didn’t you 
telegraph what train?” 


THE WORLDLINGS 49 

“I hadn’t seen the time-table when I wired; 
I wired you from the docks.” 

“So I saw, yes — that is another thing! why 
the docks — why didn’t you land at Plymouth? 
I remitted a hundred pounds; surely a hundred 
pounds was enough?” 

“It would have been enough if I hadn’t been 
in difficulties on the Fields. I was in a pretty 
tight corner there — you may have gathered that 
from my cable?” 

“It is astonishing,” said the old man, musingly 
— “the difference in you, I mean. Your voice 
has grown so strong, and you are so big. You 
are no longer a boy, Philip — you are no longer 
a boy! . . . What were you saying? Yes, yes 
— your cable. I was very glad to get your cable. 
I had already written to you, but my letter was 
returned by the post-office.” 

“You had written to me? Where?” 

“To the farm, the ostrich farm; I couldn’t 
guess that you had left it! I was going to take 
steps to find you — I was about to advertise for 
you — when your cable came.” 

“I see,” said Maurice. “The farm turned out 
badly; it was a big mistake for me to try the busi- 
ness. I went into partnership with a man who 
pretended to know all about it, but I don’t think 
he knew much more than I did at the start; he 


50 


THE WORLDLINGS 


bought his experience with my money. Then I 
went up to the Fields. I didn’t write to you when 
I gave the farm up because I didn’t think you 
wanted any correspondence — you didn’t answer 
the first letter, you know.” 

“Oh, yes !” said Sir Noel, “you are quite wrong. 
I did answer your letter; I was very glad to re- 
ceive it — it gave me great pleasure. You didn’t 
get my answer?” 

“No, indeed I never got it! it went astray then. 
Your second letter, of course, arrived after I had 
gone, but I ought to have had the first. I’ve 
never had a line from you, till this note with the 
draft, since I left England.” 

The old man tapped his fingers on the arm of 
the chair. “I had hoped that you would write 
to me from Melbourne,” he said slowly, “when 
I was obliged to discontinue your allowance. It 
was not my fault. It was explained to you that 
I could not help it. You knew that the Bar was 
never a large income to me, and there was no 
prospect of my succession for me to raise money 
on. When my dividends ceased, I was in great 
trouble — very great trouble — for a long while. 
I hoped that I should hear from my son to say 
— to say that he was sorry.” 

“I wish you had!” said Maurice, sincerely. 
“Well, I was younger then, and bitterer; that’s 


THE WORLDLINGS 


51 


the only excuse I’ve got. I’ve had some tolerably 
rough lessons since — if it’s any satisfaction to you 
to know it I” 

“You have been poor, you have had a hard 
time — and it may have done you no harm. But 
while you have been away, there has been noth- 
ing — nothing else, Philip?” 

“I’ve only done one disgraceful thing in my 
life,” said Maurice; “that I can swear!” 

The Baronet sighed. “There was more than 
the one,” he said, “but I know what you mean. 
Well, what is past is past. After all you were 
not twenty! Many men have turned over a new 
leaf later and made a career for themselves. You 
have not made a career, but if you have changed 
yours ways, you have done enough. I — I am 
glad to believe you did not get my answer to 
your letter; it distressed me very much that, after 
I had replied, the years should pass without your 
writing again.” 

The soup was brought in, and they took their 
seats at the table. The butler was the only ser- 
vant in attendance, but for the first time since 
he was a lad, Maurice knew a well-served dinner. 
The surroundings, however, were too impressive 
to be desirable to his straying gaze; the carved 
and bracketed ceiling, supported by strange ani- 
mals’ heads, the massiveness of the furniture, and 


52 


THE WORLDLINGS 


the huge, dark portraits on the walls were awe- 
some to him. Once, as the warmth of Burgundy 
ran through his veins, a half-smile curved his 
month; he was picturing Rosa Fleming dining 
in the coffee-room at Bloomsbury. He must 
telegraph to her guardedly in the morning! Poor 
woman, she was doubtless counting the minutes 
until she heard his news. 

When they rose, he was relieved to be led to 
Sir Noel’s room, where he found morocco arm- 
chairs and cigars. 

“I haven’t congratuated you,” he said; “I sup- 
pose I may use the word ‘congratulate’ ? It seems 
very queer when I look back, and remember 
where I saw you last!” 

“Yes,” said Sir Noel, “it’s wonderful — very 
wonderful — that it should come to me. It is 
something to be proud of, one of the oldest 
baronetcies in England, eh? And yet it has come 
rather late for me to appreciate it fully for my- 
self. If — if your mother had lived, how happy 
she would have been to-day! I have often thought 
of her since I have been here and wished that she 
could see it with me.” His head drooped pen- 
sively, “I used to be rather glad that she was 
dead!” 

“I suppose,” said Maurice, “you mean that 
you were glad because of me V* 


THE WORLDLINGS 


53 


“Ah, I should not have said that, I — I’m sorry! 
|You must forgive me. Well, well, well, we were 
talking of other things! There are over a hun- 
dred farms, and the park is at least five hundred 
acres; and the place is grand — you have no idea 
yet. There is the room where Charles II. slept 
before he fled, and — and the pictures are very 
fine — Vandykes, Teniers, you will see! Then 
there are very charming people; I cannot visit 
much, though I have driven over to them once or 
twice when it has been mild, but they make al- 
lowance for my age. Whichcote — Lady W: rens- 
fordsley’s place — is close ; Lady Helen, her 
daughter, is one of the loveliest girls you have 
ever seen. And Provand has a house here — his 
family are down here now — and there are the 
Saviles. Provand and I were called at the same 
time. I remember when the dinners were a great 
attraction to him, because of their cheapness, but 
now he has made a big practice, and has taken 
silk. I wish you had gone to the Bar, or had 
been a Varsity man ! When people ask what you 
have done abroad Well, well, you have trav- 

elled; you never met anybody, that is all! I re- 
member when you were a little boy, and we stayed 
at — at — where did we stay? — when we stayed at 
some watering-place, you took riding-lessons for 
a few weeks, but I could not afford them for you 


54 


THE WORLDLINGS 


again, and of course you forgot all you had 
learned. They ride to hounds, you know; you 
mustn’t be out of it, you mustn’t be out of it, 
you must hunt, and shoot, and do everything! 
The place will come to you; my son must play 
his part, and — and be admired.” 

“I am afraid I shan’t distinguish myself as a 
shot; I had a gun in my hands in Kimberley for 
the first time for years, and then there wasn’t 
any occasion to fire. But I can ride a bit; I was 
in the North-West Police once.” 

“The Police?” 

“ ‘Canadian Mounted,’ you know — it sounds 
rather well if you roll it out!” said Maurice, 
coolly. Nevertheless he was a trifle sorry that 
he had let the fact slip; it was inadvisable to 
be precise. He wished that the real man’s bio- 
graphical details had been less disreputable. “I’ve 
been a good many things,” he continued: “I’ve 
had to live and to put my pride in my pocket; 
and it has often been all I had there. In New 
York I was a reporter for six weeks. I was a 
flat failure as a reporter. I only had one assign- 
ment — and that settled me !” 

“‘Assignment’?” said Sir Noel vaguely; “I 
don’t understand. Tell me ; I am interested.” 

“ ‘Assignments’ are the daily jobs. I was sup- 
posed to be reporting for a News Agency. I 


THE WORLDLINGS 


55 


used to go down town every morning and open 
a little locker to see what mission had been en- 
trusted to me, but the locker was always empty. 
I was a novice, you see, and the experienced 
hands got all the work. Then I went back to 
my room, with a book from a free library, and 
read ; there wasn’t anything else to do. A fellow 
had told me I might earn thirty-five dollars a 
week at the business, but I didn’t earn a cent. 
It was rather hard lines, because the time came 

when Well, it was rather hard lines! One 

morning I did find a slip of paper in my locker. 
I was instructed to interview a girl who had just 
lost her mother. The address was in Brooklyn, 
and it was a terrifically hot day. I was pretty 
tired when I got there; and I had to pay my own 
fare, too! I had to put all sorts of questions to 
her, you know — how old the corpse was, and 
where it was to be buried, and what time the 
funeral started; and then I reckoned to write at 
least six lines of description of the ‘floral offer- 
ings’ — the reporters always called the wreaths 
‘floral offerings’ — and six lines, when you were 
to be paid on the string, meant food.” 

“It meant food!” murmured Sir Noel. “Yes, 
wefi?” 

“WeU 5 as I say, I was a failure. The girl came 
down to me looking rather like death herself; her 


56 


THE WORLDLINGS 


eyes were awful to see, and when she asked me 
what it was I wanted to hear, her voice wobbled. 
So I just said that there wasn’t anything at all 
and that I was immensely sorry to have bothered 
her. Of course I had to explain to the manager 
why I hadn’t a report when I got back; and after 
he had had a fit, I was fired.” 

“ ‘Fired’?” 

“Sacked. ‘Fired’ is American, but the process 
is just as prompt. I was a clerk in a collateral 
bank next — you would have called it a pawn- 
broker’s — but I only stayed there a fortnight, 
and left with a V as capital, while I looked round 
again; a ‘V’ means five dollars. Oh, yes, I think 
I’ve been everything, except a success, but — er — * 
I got a few hundred pounds together as the years 
went on, or I couldn’t have gone into the ostrich 
farm. I should like another cigar!” 

Whisky and potash-water had been brought 
into the room, and he took a long draught from 
his glass, and lit a cedar-spill with appreciative 
deliberation. After Cape lucifers, cedar-spills 
were good to use. 

“And in Kimberley?” said Sir Noel; “when 
you had lost your money, what did you do there? 
You said that the last time you held a gun was 
in Kimberley.” 

“Oh, that was during the Kama Company’s 


THE WORLDLINGS 


57 


row, before I found an overseer’s berth. The 
men were on strike, and they had sworn to de- 
stroy the gear. The Company offered a pound 
a day to fellows to come up and defend it, and 
those who were broke, went. The rifles were pro- 
vided — and not much else. Nobody saw soap for 
a week. We slept on the ground, of course, and 
there were no plates, or forks, or other luxuries. 
When the meat was done enough, it was hooked 
out of the cauldron with a pickaxe, and we ate it 
in our fingers. It was a very dirty time, but not 
in the least dangerous. We patrolled in turns at 
night, and once there was a cry of, ‘All fires out 
■ — every man to his post !’ but nothing happened. 
Everyone felt very foolish, I think. At the end 
of the week I went home and washed. And then 
I collected six pounds, and had a dinner. I did 
enjoy that beer — a bottle of beer costs three-and- 
sixpence on the Fields, but it was worth the 
money.” 

Sir Noel coughed, and leant his head on his 
hand. “I do not recognise you,” he said at last, 
“you have come back so different. But you have 
improved. I like your tone ; it is — manly — your 
tone suits you, Philip. I am glad you have come 
back!” 

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” Maurice re- 
turned. “I’ve been knocked into shape since the 


THE WORLDLINGS 


S8 

days you’re thinking about. Experience is a bet- 
ter tutor than Benson, you know! . . . Don’t 
you remember Benson? — after the affair at the 
Bedford school. What an outsider the fellow 
was, now I look back at him!” 

“Yes,” said Sir Noel, “I remember now. I 
trusted him, and he deceived me.” 

Maurice frowned involuntarily. “And though 
I’ve had a rough time, I daresay I shall be able 
to shake down all right, with a little practice,” 
he went on. “I shan’t be any good at a dance 
as long as I live, I’m afraid, but I shall pick up 
the rest.” 

“You want clothes,” said Sir Noel, “you must 
have clothes at once ; in the meantime you are im- 
possible. We will telegraph to a tailor in the 
morning to send a man down. Well, well, well, 
tell me more ! Go on, talk to me ; I like to hear 
you talk. Take another drink — you are very 
abstemious ! At my age it is necessary, but you 
are a young man.” 

They sat together until eleven, and then Sir 
Noel retired. “You won’t mind if I leave you?” 
he inquired; “I am obliged to keep early hours 
now.” 

Maurice opened the door for him, and turned 
slowly, and lit a third cigar. 

When it was smoked to the end he rang the 


THE WORLDLINGS 


59 


bell, and Cope showed him the way to his bed- 
room. He sat gazing at Kis room, and thinking 
again, for a long while before he undressed. Once 
or twice he shook his mind free of his thoughts, 
and crossed the floor curiously to examine some- 
thing. He drew the curtains aside, and looked 
over the park, solemn under a watery moon. Was 
it all real? Had this thing happened in his life? 
And clothes, clothes fashionable, with piles of 
shirts, and a row of boots, were to be his as soon 
as West End tradesmen could make them for 
him! 

The thought of the row of boots recurred in 
his meditations after he was in bed, and was the 
last vague fancy that flitted across his mind be- 
fore he fell asleep, 


CHAPTER IV 


Sib Noel seldom descended before noon, and 
when Maurice had learnt the fact and break- 
fasted next morning, he went out. Gakenhurst 
looked less desolate by daylight ; indeed, he could 
easily conceive that in summer it was very pretty. 
Having walked into the village, he inquired the 
way to the telegraph office, and there despatched 
his message to Rosa. He telegraphed: ‘‘Found 
my father feeble, but otherwise all right. No 
cause for anxiety. — Philip.” 

After luncheon the Baronet wished to conduct 
him through the house, but the role of guide 
speedily fatigued the old man, and the house- 
keeper was deputed to take his place. When 
Maurice rejoined him, he was sitting by the fire 
in his room, with The Times on his knees, polish- 
ing his pince-nez with his handkerchief. He 
looked up eagerly. 

“Well?” he exclaimed. “Well, what, eh?” 

“I never imagined such a place,” said Maurice. 
“I can’t say any more, but I feel the greatness 
of it right in my heart.” 


60 


THE WORLDLINGS 


61 


The puckered face brightened with pleasure. 
“Everybody says so. There is nothing like it 
here; Whichcote is quite modem in comparison 
— you will see when they come back; they are 
in Algiers now. I am sorry I couldn’t remain 
with you, but I soon get tired. At seventy-six 
we are not energetic — and our sight is not so 
strong as it used to be either!” he added, striking 
the newspaper testily. 

“You oughtn’t to strain your sight; would you 
care for me to — to read that to you for a little 
while?” 

Sir Noel peered at him with what seemed to 
be a shade of incredulity. 

“Would you really do it?” he said. “Are you 
sure it wouldn’t bore you? I am not so old that 
I’ve forgotten that the elderly soon become try- 
ing; and you — you have no need to pay me at- 
tentions, you know.” 

“I’m the most selfish man that ever lived,” 
said Maurice; “if it went against the grain, I’m 
afraid I shouldn’t make the offer.” 

But after the reading had continued for half 
an hour. Sir Noel declared that there was no 
more he wished to hear, and presently he dozed. 
When his eyes opened, they dwelt on Maurice 
with satisfaction, and the white head nodded 
slowly. Then the Baronet and the impostor con- 


62 


THE WORLDLINGS 


versed again, and the evening passed much as the 
one before. 

The following afternoon Maurice went up to 
town. He had an open cheque for a hundred 
pounds in his note-book, and from Waterloo he 
drove to the hotel in Bloomsbury. 

Mrs. Fleming was in the drawing-room, he 
heard, and he entered unannounced. A middle- 
aged person whose countenance proclaimed her 
spinsterhood was stitching red flannel by the 
window, and in a green rep armchair, with a 
crochet antimacassar, a curate was reading The 
Christian World. Rosa sprang to her feet, with 
a dozen interrogatories in her gaze. 

“Oh, how do you do?” she said, in considera- 
tion of the spinster and the curate. 

“Extremely well, thanks!” replied Maurice, 
considering all three. “Shall we go out?” he 
suggested in a lower voice; “I want to get to 
the bank before four, and we can talk. I’ll wait 
for you while you put your things on.” 

She did not keep him waiting long, and they 
strolled into iNew Oxford Street beforef they 
hailed a cab. 

“And it is really all right?” she inquired; “you 
don’t think he is suspicious, you don’t think he’s 
watching you?” 

“No,” said the man, “I am quite sure he isn’t.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


66 


“I scarcely dared to hope you would get any 
money from him so soon. Was it difficult to 
work?” 

“No,” he said again; “I didn’t work it at all 
— he gave me the money. I meant to ask for 
some in time enough for you, but, as it happens, 
I can only claim credit for the intention. In 
point of fact, he doesn’t answer to your descrip- 
tion a bit; he isn’t vindictive, and he isn’t hard, 
and he isn’t mean.” 

“Really?” she said. “I suppose he has 
changed.” 

“He must have changed a great deal, if his son 
read him rightly. Well, how have you been?” 

“How have I been?” she cried — “didn’t you 
see the place? I’d rather be alone in Lennox 
Street than have those ghastly people over me 
all day. And it has rained all the time ; I haven’t 
been outside the door till now! When do you 
think I can move?” 

“You can move whenever you like; there’s 
nothing to prevent you — I daresay I shall be able 
to bring you some more before your share of 
this has gone.” 

“Twenty-five pounds won’t last very long,” 
she said. “I can’t move as I am — I haven’t a 
rag to my back.” 

“You’re going to have fifty. You see, I get 


64 * 


THE WORLDLINGS 


an outfit besides. I can’t give you your share of 
what it costs, so the least you’re entitled to is half 
this hundred. I’m not sure that even that is 
fair?” 

“Why, yes,” she said; “thanks! Fifty is quite 
fair — fifty will do a lot. . . . Well, what’s it like 
— what’s the place like? You seem to take it all 
very calmly. We have succeeded. Aren’t you 
crazy with delight? haven’t you got anything to 
say?” 

“The place makes the past seem very real to 
you, and you feel very humble in it,” said Maur- 
ice; “I should think anyone would feel very 
humble in it. My bedroom overlooks the park; 
the park is five hundred acres. There are over a 
hundred farms. The old man likes me. What 
else am I to tell you?” 

They had reached the bank, and he took her in 
with him, and gave her ten of the five-pound 
notes when they had re-entered the hansom. 

“I have to go to a hatter’s, and to the tailor’s 
to try some suits on,” he said. “If you don’t 
mind waiting in the cab for me, we’ll have a swell 
dinner somewhere before I go back.” 

She clutched his arm. “But won’t they stare 
at us like this? Everybody will be in evening- 
dress.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


65 


“Oh, not everybody! Besides, if you’d prefer, 
it, we can choose a quiet place.” 

“No,” she said, “no! I’d like to be in the gas- 
light, among people again. Where shall we 
go?” 

“You aren’t in good hands, but we’ll go to the 
best place we can think of — or the best place 
where our clothes will pass. By the way, I’ve 
often meant to ask you, did — did Jardine speak 
French, or anything but English?” 

“He knew a little French, but he couldn’t 
speak it,” she answered. 

“That’s all right,” said Maurice. “Everybody 
‘knows’ a little French; we have all been to 
school.” 

After the tailor’s had been visited they had 
some lukewarm coffee in two tiny cups, at a 
confectioner’s in Bond Street, for a shilling a 
cup; and then they looked at the shop windows, 
and sauntered into Regent Street, where they 
looked at the shops too. It amused Maurice to 
note the furs of the winter and the flowers of the 
| summer such near neighbours, and he wondered 
in which branches of art the young men were 
! celebrated who scowded so intellectually in their 
photographs — not understanding that they were 
celebrities’ sons. He bought a hat for her that 
she stopped to admire — or, more accurately, he 


66 


THE WORLDLINGS 


bought a dearer one that they saw inside, for the 
“young lady” who attended to them insisted that 
the hat from the window was “rather matronly 
for you, moddam.” 

A stranger inclined to speculate about them 
would have been puzzled to determine what tie 
existed; they were not attracted by each other 
certainly — the absence of the sexual magic in 
their relation was obvious on both sides; they 
weren’t brother and sister — the facial character- 
istics were too dissimilar; they weren’t husband 
and wife — a quick ear could detect that in their 
tones. But the “big Colonial” w T ho looked at her 
so carelessly was paying for the handsome wom- 
an’s hat, and then they went away together to 
dine. 

Now Maurice was irritated by his own per- 
plexity, though he would not suffer his demean- 
our to betray him. He would have liked to order 
the dinner with the utmost judgment, to select 
the wines with scrupulous taste. He was aware, 
by hearsay, that one may pay for the elaboration 
with which the waiter fiddles with the glass, 
rather than for what the bottle contains, and that 
the pre-eminence of a vintage in a restaurant 
occasionally lies in the gravity with which he lifts 
the cradle. It annoyed Maurice to feel unso- 
phisticated in the ornate room where women’s 


THE WORLDLINGS 


67 


necks gleamed so whitely and dining had evi- 
dently been elevated to the plane of an art. 
When a man’s choice of hors d’oeuvres is “na- 
tives,” however, he strikes the*keynote to his in- 
tentions, and, if the waiter to whom he has 
drifted is intelligent, all may easily go well, 
Maurice accepted several recommendations with 
regard to the menu, but sought guidance with the 
air of one whom it is unwise to deceive. Rosa 
preferred hock and champagne, and, resigning 
himself to order blindly Schloss Johannisberg 
’62, and Perrier Jouet ’74, his deliberation as he 
spoke the numbers suggested that a wine-list held 
no secrets from him. The waiter’s conjectures 
about the stranger who carried himself with such 
assurance in a pea-jacket and commanded the 
dinner of a wealthy man, mounted rapidly; and 
when the peaches were pronounced flavourless, 
he staked his all and did that which Maurice was 
far from appreciating as it deserved — he sug- 
gested pousse-cafes. 

They were so pretty that Rosa said it was a 
shame to disturb them, but it was past eight 
o’clock, and Maurice wanted to catch the quick 
train. Nevertheless when he had put her into a 
cab, he did not call another for himself immedi- 
ately. For the first time he stood on the pave- 
ments of the West End independent, and his 


68 


THE WORLDLINGS 


fancy hummed with the knowledge. His mind 
reverted to the women whom he had watched in- 
side, as they murmured, and dined, and lifted 
their lashes and smiled — the women among the 
English parties, in their fashionable toilettes. 
What did the young men who placed the cloaks 
about their delicate shoulders so composedly say 
to interest them? Would he know what to say? 
he feared not. Yet he wished himself for a few 
hours in the position of the men. 

The thought of the silent house in Surrey 
jarred on his mood. How graceful that woman 
had been who looked back and nodded to the 
people in the far corner as she left ! How charm- 
ing the movement ! such a quick careless turn, and 
yet expressing everything so perfectly: “Well, 
we shall see you afterwards. Au revoir — I know 
it’s going to be very pleasant; I hope you won’t 
be bored yourselves !” How exquisitely her frock 
became her, and how perfect were her neck and 
throat ! 

The pale curve of Regent Street gleamed en- 
ticingly. He wanted to hear a woman’s voice in 
a song of sentiment — or to see a ballet — or to ride 
fast through cold air — anything but to go to 
Croft Court. The burst of brightness at the 
Circus pleased his eyes, and the exteriors of the 
variety-theatres shone with momentary allure- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


69 


ment. But next, the thought that he would feel 
cooped if he obeyed his impulse, made him hesi- 
tate. He strolled along Piccadilly, undecided 
whether he would go back and enter one, or not. 
Alternately the notion attracted and repelled 
him. His desires took no definite form, but he 
was craving for excitement, athirst to gulp at the 
cup that he had bought, here and now. 

When he looked at a clock, he had only time 
to catch the last train of all. He had not imag- 
ined that it was so late. He was annoyed with 
himself and depressed. What he had won 
seemed, in the new melancholy that pervaded him, 
an empty possession. Now the thought of the 
women whom he had viewed in the restaurant 
came back to him heavily, but his mind turned 
under it, to think with impatience of the men. 
How soon would the real life be open to him — 
the life that he had a right to expect? When 
would he snatch the key to the inner London 
where things were at their best — where it was 
forbidden to paint the blemish, to gild inferior 
gauds, or throw a perfume on the nearly clean? 

He looked about him, and for him habitude 
had spun no veil. The hour was late for London. 
The theatres had shut their doors; in the music- 
halls the last “comedian” had made the last 
“joke” about the last stale egg. It had struck 


70 


THE WORLDLINGS 


eleven, and the amusements of the nation were 
suspended. Glum-eyed people traversed the 
dark town drearily, the black figures moving on 
the greyness like automata. Through the gloom 
of Regent Street the fusty busses rumbled to the 
suburbs, the glimmer of their mediaeval oil-lamps 
tinging the melancholy faces of the Londoners 
who went home because they had nowhere else 
to go. For the multitude no choice remained but 
liquor, or bed. Depression pervaded the cant- 
ridden, unlighted capital like a fog; the windows 
of the publicans made the only cheer in the city 
of the Pharisees. On the pavements of Piccadil- 
ly he saw self-respecting citizens degraded by the 
shamelessness of the legislative mind; and knew 
that when an attempt was made to refine matters, 
it was severely punished. Counsel — with the 
tongue in the cheek — referred to the improvement 
in terms of cloistral contempt; the magistrate — 
quantum mutatus ab illo — was officially appalled 
to learn that such iniquity had thriven; para- 
graphists — grinning as they wrote — proclaimed 
the need for 4 ‘suppressing these offences with a 
strong hand.” It was the triumph of topsy-tur- 
vydom — the apotheosis of pretence ; the reformer 
was imprisoned, and the legislative immorality 
was content. As he looked, the great sombre city 
seemed to him an incarnate nightmare. . . 


THE WORLDLINGS 


71 


Then from the serried sidewalk there rose a 
strange sound, a sound that for a moment light- 
ened his oppression — the sound of a single laugh. 
Something in his breast vibrated, and he was 
startled by the knowledge that it was the first 
laugh he had heard in the London streets. 

When he reached home, Sir Noel had gone to 
bed, and Maurice was glad to seek his own. On 
the morrow the sun shone, and after they had 
sauntered a while on the terrace, he repeated his 
offices of the last two days. It became his custom 
to read to the old man for half an hour or so 
each morning ; and so unvarying was the routine 
of the house, that when a week had passed since 
the night of his arrival, it was strange to him to 
reflect that he had been here no longer. 

A dinner-party was given at the Court shortly 
afterwards, and Sir Noel nodded approval to 
himself when Maurice appeared. Maurice indeed 
looked a fine fellow with his close-cropped beard, 
and the air of distinction that the right tailor can 
confer on the right man. His eyes were quick; 
he had learnt at the restaurant that the most de- 
sirable fastening for the single stud-hole that he 
found in his shirt-fronts was a small pearl — and 
had bought one, declining the more expensive or- 
naments that resembled miniature brooches. He 
had observed that the best-dressed men there 


THE WORLDLINGS 


72 

eschewed watch-chains in the evening — and this 
fashion had been the easier for him to obey since 
he did not possess a watch-chain yet. Little would 
ever be lost on him; if it had already been the 
custom among the “best people” to banish their 
arms from their stationery, the tyro would have 
been among the first to write on paper that was 
stamped only with the address; but the knowl- 
edge that he was apt did not lessen the fact that 
he was nervous. - 

He strove to encourage himself by remember- 
ing that he had lived among gentlepeople until he 
was nearly seventeen. But it was a long time 
ago ; and he had never met county people, never 
met titled people, and, although it might be ridic- 
ulous, he could not avoid the misgiving that peo- 
ple, with handles to their names, must present 
other difficulties than that of not knowing what 
to call them. To storm Croft Court and an old 
man who was awaiting his son had merely re- 
quired superlative courage, but the ordeal before 
him demanded something over and above the con- 
trol of his nerves — it demanded experience. 
Though the circumstances had enabled him to ask 
Sir Noel for information on the points of which 
he knew in advance that he was ignorant, he was 
haunted by the dread of critical moments im- 
possible to foresee. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


73 


Lady Wrensfordsley, and Lady Helen Cleeve 
were still in Algiers, and Provand, of whom Sir 
Noel had spoken, had not returned to Oakenhurst 
since the beginning of the Hilary term. How- 
ever, Mrs. and Miss Provand came; and there 
were Sir Thomas and Lady Savile, and most of 
the other people of whom Maurice had heard, in- 
cluding the Rector and his wife — a rather sur- 
prising little blonde many years his junior, who 
confided to “Mr. Jardine” that parochial work 
was a “great responsibility,” in a tone which sug- 
gested that she meant a “great bore.” To his 
surprise, he found the evening agreeable after 
half an hour, and it was only when the West Sur- 
rey hounds began to stream through the conver- 
sation that he had the impression of following on 
a lame mount. 

Aet he was neither taciturn nor tactless; and 
when Sir Thomas told him the “rabbit-shooting 
was wonderfully good,” and added: “Rut if 
you’re used to big game, I suppose that isn’t 
much pull?” he contrived to remark that he had 
done very little shooting without appearing to 
deprecate the fact. 

What the Rector called “your enviable ac- 
quaintance with foreign countries” was very use- 
ful to him on his debut. Central Park, and Niag- 
ara, or Adderley Street, and Table Mountain, 


74 


THE WORLDLINGS 


present the same features of interest to the emi- 
grant as to the tourist, and it was not necessary 
to state that he had admired the park at a period 
when his only luncheons had been those provided 
gratis with a glass of beer, or that he had first 
beheld the mountain from a steerage deck. 

Lady Savile had consented to play hostess, but 
her good-nature could not be taxed too severely, 
and Sir Noel suggested the move to the drawing- 
room before long. Her cordiality was very grat- 
ifying to Maurice, and he thought her amusing, 
though she was secretly chagrined by the absence 
of her elder daughter, who some people main- 
tained was a beauty, but who was eight-and- 
twenty, and still “Miss Savile.” The informality 
with which the lady hoped to “see a great deal of 
him in future” flattered him. He was not aware 
that Agatha Savile and her sister were returning 
from a visit in Leicestershire that week, noi^ 
would the fact have had any significance to him 
had he known it. 

Mrs. Provand’s manner was equally warm, and 
Miss Provand herself, though she said little, was 
so pretty that he pardoned her shyness for the 
sake of her eyelashes. He felt exhilarated by his 
self-possession; it seemed to him that nothing 
could be simpler than to talk to women in a 
drawing-room. How small a witticism provoked 


THE WORLDLINGS 


75 


their laughter! When the “good-nights” began, 
a e was sorry that the party was finishing; he had 
not guessed that it would terminate so early, and 
he mentally registered the hour for his own guid- 
ance. People were delightful — they could not 
have been nicer to him if he had met them many 
times! He was conscious that it was not for his 
graces, nor his talents, that they made much of 
him; he understood that he merely shone in the 
reflected lustre of Sir Noel; but if he had heard 
that every woman present had been contemplat- 
ing him in the light of somebody’s husband, he 
would have been dumfounded. His matrimonial 
eligibility — that the girl who secured him would 
be held to make a brilliant alliance — had not 
crossed his mind. He did not realise yet that he 
might marry the daughter of a duchess if he 
would — that in the position he occupied he was 
popularly regarded as a match for any woman in 
England. 


CHAPTER yi 


As the novelty faded — as custom dulled its 
brilliance and he was enabled to see it steadily — 
life at Oakenhurst became galling to Maurice. 
If familiarity with gentlewomen did not breed 
contempt, it begot tedium. Miss Provand’s eye- 
lashes; the engrossed gaze of Agatha Savile, and 
her trick of saying “Do you think so? — you 
don't ?” — a compliment to his profundity, not a 
contradiction — whenever he expressed a view; 
the empty chatter of her sister; the allusions to 
things he knew nothing about, all wearied him. 

It was not so easy after all to sustain a conver- 
sation ! He felt more foreign in the atmosphere 
now than he had done when he first breathed it; 
yet it appeared to him sometimes, as the weeks 
went by, that the deficiency lay in English maid- 
enhood rather than in himself. If, despite his 
limitations, he could talk less clumsily to the elder 
than to the younger women, it was because Eng- 
lish maidenhood, under its becoming frocks, w 7 as 
distinctly silly. Perhaps he should except Miss 
Savile; he was inclined to think that with her the 
silliness was a pose and that considerable shrewd- 

76 


THE WORLDLINGS 


77 


ness lay behind her artless gaze; but he didn’t 
like her. 

The dress of all the girls, their speech — fla- 
voured with the phrases of the moment — the 
modernity of their manner had stimulated his 
curiosity ; but they did not hold his interest. Be- 
sides, Sir Noel had awakened him to his matri- 
monial value — and he could never marry; that 
would be the culminating crime, to jeopardise a 
girl’s future by asking her to share a position that 
he held by imposture ! To what end should he sip 
tea in drawing-rooms and yawn in spirit, while 
he perhaps encouraged a simpleton to anticipate 
a magnificent income that he could never offer? 

No, it wasn’t to flirt over a tea-table that he 
had done this thing! Nor had the pastimes of a 
country gentleman any abiding attraction for 
him; he had roughed it so often from necessity 
that v/hat he wanted now was to luxuriate. 

He recalled the visions that he had seen aboard 
ship. When was he going to realise them ? That 
was what he had schemed for — to be his own 
master in cities, to play, and sup, and gather 
some of the “roses and raptures” of the world. 
Sir Thomas had offered to “put him up at 
Boodle’s,” and he had accepted the suggestion 
with alacrity, but even when he should be elected, 
it seemed to him that his opportunities for learn- 


78 


THE WORLDLINGS 


in g the pass-word to inner London — for discover- 
ing the Open Sesame and Roses — would be few. 
Sir Noel had once referred to the desirability of 
his making a public career, and the proposal had 
appalled him. He knew nor cared nothing about 
politics ; he would never be able to open his mouth 
in the House if he were there ! There were hours 
when he tramped under the ancestral oaks and 
beeches, feeling with exasperation that he had 
paid away his liberty as well as his honour, and 
had little in return — that he was like a child 
mocked with an expensive present that he mustn’t 
touch. 

Then he asked himself if he had lost his senses 
— this place would be his. But when Sir Noel 
died ! — he didn’t desire him to die — he liked him ; 
he would have been quite satisfied that the Bar- 
onet should live to be a centenarian if only the 
circumstances had been different. 

Rosa Fleming was almost equally disappoint- 
ed, and he had begun to dread his visits to her a 
shade. She had removed to an hotel in the West 
End, and had primarily viewed the world with 
smiling eyes ; but the world, after all, never smiled 
back to her. She was alone, and her resources 
were precarious. She did not mistrust Maurice 
— he appeared, as she had exclaimed once or 
twice, to be “playing very fair” with her — and 


THE WORLDLINGS 


79 


common sense told her that no writing between 
them would in any way strengthen her hand; 
yet, whether it was his fault or not, her situation 
lacked a good deal. Where were the social ad- 
vantages that had been promised? 

At first the glitter of the table d’hote, to go 
everywhere in hansoms, and the consciousness 
that whether she bought her gloves in Holborn, 
or the Burlington Arcade, somebody else would 
pay the price, had all been exciting; but such ex- 
citement soon wore out. She had known such 
things before. The charm, to the woman, was 
not even that of a brilliant novelty, but only of a 
brilliant revival; and she was reminded in how 
much gayer surroundings she had spent money 
last. To be sure, there were the comic operas and 
the variety-theatres — she sat in the hall, envious- 
ly watching the people filter out after dinner 
sometimes — but to be seen about London by her- 
self at night would be indiscreet. Her mind was 
set on big stakes ; she wanted a footing in society, 
all that Jardine would have given to her had he 
lived; she must be careful of her reputation! 

It was impossible that through her brain should 
never flit the perception that all that Jardine 
could have given to her, the man who was per- 
sonating him could give ; and for this reason, al- 
though she trusted Maurice, her feeling for him 


80 


THE WORLDLINGS 


was one of respect, and not of liking. “Respect,” 
though it sounds a curious term in the connection, 
was the only favourable sentiment that he now 
inspired in her. She might have married him — 
and he looked at her as if she had been a man! 
He knew too much about her, she had “given 
herself away” to him! and she was chagrined to 
feel it. It was true that the first rich man she 
met would probably appeal to her more, but their 
interests were one ; it seemed to her that he would 
take a wise step in making her his wife ; and she, 
moreover, was unlikely ever to meet any other 
man who could provide her with so much. It 
irritated her that she, for whom others had com- 
mitted follies, should be treated by her partner 
with impassivity. 

The expression of her ennui to Maurice had 
been murmurs rather than complaints hitherto, 
but once, when he came, she spoke plainly. 

“I don’t see what I have to look forward to,” 
she said. “How would you care about it? I 
don’t know a soul. Two or three of the women 
here have dropped a few words to me — and I’m 
prepared with a few lies ; but there’s no occasion 
to tell them; I don’t get any forrader. I can’t 
make a circle of acquaintances living like this!” 

“Well, what do you want me to do?” he asked. 

“I don’t know why you don’t introduce me to 


THE WORLDLINGS 


81 


Sir Noel; that was the arrangement. At least, 
the arrangement was that I should have every 
chance of meeting people. Croft Court would 
be a very good place to begin at.” 

“I don’t think Sir Noel would be very rollick- 
ing company for you,” he said diffidently. “You 
would be much duller at Croft Court than here.” 

“But I should see it — I want to see it. Re- 
member you are having a very good time! Be- 
sides, there are other people at Oakenhurst — you 
tell me that you hunt, and go out to dinner; there 
are plenty of people I would rather meet than Sir 
Noel. I see the Countess of Wrensfordsley has 
a house there — why shouldn’t I be introduced to 
her r 

“You wouldn’t see her if you went to Oaken- 
hurst,” he answered. “They went abroad for the 
winter, and they aren’t back yet. By the way, 
they pronounce it ‘Wrensley,’ and she’s spoken 
of as ‘Lady Wrensfordsley’; I’m sure I don’t 
know why.” 

“But she is the Countess of Wrensfordsley,” 
said Rosa, omitting the redundant syllable. “I 
saw her name in print.” 

“Yes; well, a countess is called ‘Lady,’ I dis- 
cover. I tell you I don’t know why. I’m not an 
authority on such matters ; I take them as I find 
them.” He played with his watch-chain nervous- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


ly. “These things arrange themselves,” he went 
on, repeating a phrase that he had heard Lady 
Savile use; “the whole affair is new yet; it will 
be all right; if you wait awhile, everything will 
come.” 

“I thought I should have a flat,” she said sul- 
lenly; “I don’t want to live in an hotel.” 

“Well, surely a flat would be slower still? 
You would be like Robinson Crusoe on his isl- 
and.” 

“I could go out,” she muttered, “I could take 
drives.” 

“You can go out now — the streets are already 
here. I give you my word that it isn’t all beer 
and skittles for me l I knew you thought I was 
‘having a good time’ — I suppose in one way I 
am! — but there’s more than a dash of disappoint- 
ment in it, too. If you didn’t look forward to 
being in an hotel, I didn’t hanker to live in a 
village. I wanted money in a lump ; I don’t like 
the cheques — every time he gives me one, it re- 
minds me I’m a thief.” 

“Oh, rats!” she said impatiently, “you’d never 
be satisfied, I believe. When you’re ‘Sir Philip 
Jardine’ you’ll find something wrong!” 

“When I’m ‘Sir Philip Jardine’ you’ll have 
five thousand a year,” said Maurice, “and you 
can have a dozen flats if you like.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


83 


“With nobody to come to see me in them! I 
tell you that I want to know people. Even five 
thousand a year is no good if I’m never to have 
any introductions. ... I haven’t sprung this on 
you — it isn’t anything fresh ; from the very com- 
mencement, when we sat talking in Lennox 
Street, I told you that what I wanted was to 
make as good a marriage as Phil would have been. 
It isn’t my game to pick up any friends I can, 
and just make the coin fly; I want to marry a 
swell — I want to go to the top.” 

“Well,” he said, “well, perhaps you will.” 

“Why shouldn’t I?” she exclaimed with sup- 
pressed vehemence. “Look at the women who 
j do! Flossie Coburg from the music-hall stage! 
a slim, slip of a stick, too, they said. If she could 
do it, with nothing but her face to attract any- 
body, I think I ought to be able to, in a good po- 
sition. Flossie Coburg, if you please — a duchess 
to-day! And how many more of them are the 
Countess of this, and Lady somebody else! Well, 
everyone remembers who they were ! Z’m not go- 
ing to do it from the music-hall stage; I’m going 
to do it properly and be respected just as much as 
if I’d been brought up among fashionable people. 
I thought you — you’d remember that you have to 
thank me for everything; I thought you’d be glad 


84 . 


THE WORLDLINGS 


— more, that you’d be eager — to make as big a 
return as you could.” 

“What do you want me to do?” demanded 
Maurice again: “don’t you see the difficulties? 
I’m a stranger everywhere myself yet; I can’t 
make my entrance into this precious society with 
‘Mrs. Fleming’ on my arm. Wait a few months, 
wait till I’m a little more familiar with my own 
footing; wait till people have got used to me. I 
remember everything, but give me a chance !” 

The truth in the answer was sufficiently obvious 
for her to realise afresh how smoothly events 
would roll if only she were to become his wife. 
She wondered, after he had left, whether the 
chance would have been born if she had concealed 
her discontent from him longer. Had those earl- 
ier murmurs of hers made her a bugbear to him? 
And now she had taunted him with what she had 
done ! What a fool she was ; she had lost more 
ground still! her impulses were always ruinous. 

Yet — yet surely, in a different key, she might 
open his eyes to the fact that she was a handsome 
woman? He was ready enough to perceive beau- 
ty in others. How his gaze had wandered away 
from her to the pretty women in the restaurant ! 
She had never forgiven him that. The imposture 
would never be discovered now, and it would be 
the finest thing that she could do, to marry him. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


85 


Yes, be would take a sweeter tone; she would 
wait as he had begged her to do. The bond be- 
tween them gave her the advantage of his only 
confidant — with patience, and tact, she might be 
‘Lady Jardine’ after all.” 

While the younger man was panting for free- 
dom, the other had arrived, by the protracted 
stages of the old, at a point where their medita- 
tions met. One day when Maurice had put down 
the newspaper, and Sir Noel had murmured, as 
he always did, “I thank you very much, Philip,” 
a long silence fell between them. At last the 
Baronet said: 

“I have been thinking about you, Philip. I — 
have been thinking.” 

“About me?” said Maurice. “What?” 

Sir Noel did not answer at once; he gave a 
series of his little nods, rather vigorously. 

“I have been thinking that the life here must 
be dull for you; and now many of the neighbours 
will be leaving soon, too. I shall not go; one 
home is enough for me — I have never seen the 
town house yet.” 

“Whose town house — ours?” Maurice asked, 
surprised. “I didn’t know there was one.” 

“Certainly there is a house — in Prince’s Gar- 
dens; I told you so long ago.” 

“I don’t remember,” said Maurice. 


86 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“In Prince’s Gardens. Of course I told you 
— why should I make a secret of it? Well, well, 
well, that is not the point. What was I saying? 
You confuse me with your foolish questions. . . . 
Yes! the neighbours will be going to town, and 
Oakenhurst will be very slow for you. Apart 
from that, altogether, you should be seen in Lon- 
don, you mustn’t be ‘buried’ here; you must do 
the right things.” 

Maurice looked at him, drawing a deep, long 
breath. 

“You might go to Prince’s Gardens, or you 
might have chambers — probably you would find 
chambers more convenient. Piccadilly. You 
should take chambers in Piccadilly. It is no life 
for a young man, to pass the year here. You 
should have your — your — your brougham — I 
don’t know what you should have — your phaeton ; 
you should have something! You must remem- 
ber that you have a position and things are ex- 
pected of you.” His tone implied that Maurice 
had opposed the proposal strenuously. “Well — ” 
he paused, and tapped his knees — “you must have 
an allowance; you can draw, say, three thousand 
a year. Come! three thousand a year. It’ll be 
enough, eh?” 

“It’s extremely generous,” said Maurice. 

“No, it isn’t a matter of ‘generosity’ — it is your 


THE WORLDLINGS 


87 


right. And, besides, I wish it. It is absurd that 
you should live as you are living now, like a lad 
with pocket-money. It will all be yours by-and- 
by, too. Three thousand a year is not so much 
that I cannot spare it, but it will do to go on with. 
You must take chambers, of course. 1 am no 
good to you for company — in town you will find 
livelier companions than an old father with a 
cough, who makes you read the paper to him. 
And I shall get on very well, don’t you fear! I 
have my own occupations, I — I think a great 
deal. At my age one is best by oneself. But — 
but, all the same, I shall miss you, and — you will 
come to see me, Philip ?” 

“I shall come very often,” said Maurice, Soft- 
ener than you’ll want me.” He was touched. 

“You will not come oftener than I shall want 
you ; but I know my duty, and you will go ! Well, 
well, well, we talk a great deal about nothing! 
I can never keep to the subject in speaking of 
anything to you — you go off at a tangent all the 
time ; you always annoyed me with that habit as 
a boy!” 

He waved his hand impatiently, as a sign that 
the conversation had ended: and Maurice saw 
that he wished to be alone. 


CHAPTER VI 


He was receiving, for his own expenditure, 
twenty-two hundred and fifty pounds a year, and 
occasionally the knowledge had power to thrill 
Maurice with astonishment still. But he did not 
often draw rein to contemplate the figures; the 
figures of his income, after all, were unimpor- 
tant; his means were practically unbounded, for 
no man about town could have raised thousands 
with greater promptitude. With a subtlety of 
distinction somewhat difficult to follow, however, 
he felt that, while he was dishonest to accept Sir 
NoeFs allowance, he would be considerably baser 
to exceed it ; and his only visit to a bill discounter’s 
was — in the language of the friend whom he 
obliged — made to “jump up behind a pal’s back.” 
The abbreviation “to jump” was not yet general. 

Moreover he tried to avoid running into debt, 
though it often seemed to him to-day that ready 
money was the last thing necessary in life. His 
difficulty was no longer to pay for what he need- 
ed, but to persuade people to be paid. His tailor 
met his request for an account with a deprecating 
smile, and he might have had six rows of boots 


THE WORLDLINGS 


89 


delivered now without producing a coin. The 
florist from whom he ordered bouquets, and who 
sent a girl to decorate his table when he gave a 
dinner, even the restauranteurs who were used to 
his patronage, and the jeweller who had had the 
privilege of supplying him with bracelets, all wore 
the air of being reimbursed superabundantly by 
the mere honour of Mr. Jardine’s approval. Giv- 
en half a sovereign a day for hansoms, it appeared 
to him that he might have lived at the rate of ten 
thousand a year without drawing a cheque. 

Yet, if ready money was not an essential, it 
provided him with a keen pleasure — he gave 
freely. Not to public charities — as a man accus- 
tomed to poverty, the existence of public chari- 
ties wasn’t a familiar fact to him. But no beggar 
ever appealed to him in vain. During his months 
in London there had not been an occasion on 
which he turned a deaf ear to distress in the 
streets, or asked himself if it was simulated. Once 
he had risked ridicule. In approaching White’s 
with a member whom he had first met at the Pro- 
vands’, he had passed a man of about his own 
age, in the station of life that he himself had re- 
cently occupied. The man was walking slowly; 
his eyes were vacant and despair was written on 
his face: perhaps he had just applied for a billet 
and been refused. Maurice took out a five-pound 


90 


THE WORLDLINGS 


note, and turned quickly. “I owe you this!” he 
said, pushing it into the breastpocket of the 
threadbare coat ; and he had entered the hall be- 
fore the man realised what had been done. 

Nevertheless he was plucking the “roses and 
raptures” of his desires. His chambers were in 
Bury Street, adjacent to Boodle’s; the proprietor 
of the club was the landlord. They had been rec- 
ommended by Captain Boulger, a brother of 
Lady Savile’s, who had rooms in the same house, 
and who assured him that he would find Boodle’s 
the best club in London, because one only paid 
the bills there when one liked; the conditions were 
so happy that he feared they couldn’t last. From 
Boulger, Maurice had acquired various hints. 
He had his stall where his entrance was watched 
for, and his box when he kept behind the cur- 
tains. He had known his first Ascot, and won ^ 
“pony” on Tristan, and lunched among the sur- 
prising millinery in the Guards’ tent. He had 
been introduced to Bignon’s and seen Paris when 
the acacias were in bloom. He had even made 
his bows on fashionable staircases while bands 
were playing, though this far more rarely than 
the cards among the photographs on his mantel- 
piece required. And he did not find it all Dead 
Sea fruit and reflect that the overseer’s simple 
lot had held more genuine happiness. He did not 


THE WORLDLINGS 


91 


sigh that it was worthless and hollow. On the 
contrary, it was just as good as he had known 
that it would be, and excepting for pangs of con- 
science, which he overcame, he enjoyed it very 
much. 

Rosa’s spirits also had been raised. The change 
in his affairs had provided her with more than 
the flat that she now occupied — she had obtained 
one, furnished, for a year ; Maurice did not forget 
that she was a stranger in London, and she had 
had to thank him for many amusing evenings; 
indeed, he had begun to wonder whether she was 
not allowing herself to be seen about with him 
too often. He did not forget Rosa, and he did 
not forget his promise to Sir Noel. He never 
wrote to him, because he feared to do so, but he 
telegraphed often — inquiries about an indisposi- 
tion, or notifications of arrival — and many times 
he declined an invitation that he would have been 
glad to accept, because he knew that the old man 
would be disappointed if his visit were postponed. 

He had waited so long for some brightness in 
life that he was burning the candle at both ends 
now. The season, however, had not been wasted 
on him, although he shirked the staircases. His 
introductions among men had been numerous 
enough, and he had studied them with an atten- 
tion which few of them had inspired before. He 


98 


THE WORLDLINGS 


had learnt many things, besides where the roses 
grew, from hearing them talk — perhaps chiefly 
that audacity was even a stronger weapon than 
he had understood. He had learnt not to make 
spasmodic strokes when he was out of his depth 
in conversation, but to maintain silence and look 
bored; he had learnt that the man who has the 
self-possession to look bored instead of embar- 
rassed in such circumstances can embarrass the 
conversationalists, and retire from the group with 
honours. 

Lady Wrensfordsley had spent a few days at 
Whichcote early in April, and then gone to town. 
She had taken a furnished house in Chapel Street 
— now Aldford Street — Mayfair. Maurice had 
already left Oakenhurst when she returned to 
England, but a card from her had come to his 
chambers soon afterwards, and Sir Noel, who was 
well aware of it, had asked him more than once 
if he had called upon her, or seen her and her 
daughter anywhere else. He had neither called, 
nor met them ; and in deference to the old man’s 
wishes he decided to do his duty without further 
delay. 

Lady Wrensfordsley was at home, he heard; 
and he found her alone when he was announced. 
She was a younger woman than he had pictured 
her — barely fifty — and Time, with its customary 


THE WORLDLINGS 


98 


unfairness, had treated her with the generosity 
which it never displays but to those whom nature 
has already favoured. If she still mourned for 
her lost youth, it was known only to herself ; and 
to the world to-day she appeared to find her flir- 
tation with middle-age a charming substitute. 

“I’m very glad to see you, Mr. Jardine,” she 
said. 

He murmured something about his regret at 
having missed her when she last called at the 
Court. 

“How is Sir Nod?” 

“My father is very well, thanks,” he said. 
“He wished to be remembered to you, only he 
wished it much more gracefully than IVe given 
his message.” 

“Your father and I are great friends,” she 
said. “My one complaint about him is that he 
doesn’t come to see us often enough; but, of 
course, he says he is an invalid — though I am 
sure I don’t see any signs of it — so one has to 
forgive him. You take tea, don’t you?” 

The tea-things were on the table, and he said 
that he did. 

“I think it’s very nice to see men take tea,” 
she said, dropping in the second lump of sugar; 
“it seems to bring them so much nearer to us. 
And they never used to!” 


04 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“Women are civilising us by degrees,” he haz- 
arded. 

“Civilisation being typified by the teapot? 
Well, it’s not bad. The French were quite right 
to make ‘civilisation’ and the ‘teapot’ both fem- 
inine. Cream?” 

“Thank you,” he said. 

The door had opened, and a girl crossed the 
room slowly. She was tall and very pale; in 
his momentary impression of her, all the colour 
of her face seemed to be concentrated in her beau- 
tiful lips, and the depths of her unregarding eyes. 
She was more than “lovely” — he remembered on 
a sudden that Sir Noel had used that word in 
speaking of her; now that he looked at her, it 
sounded insignificant to him. As he watched her 
move towards them, he was sensible that when a 
poem had stimulated his imagination of an aris- 
tocrat — of a girl whose freshness and bearing 
were instinct with race — it had been the vague 
image of such a girl as this that stirred his 
thoughts. 

Lady Wrensfordsley turned her head now. He 
could see no space to set down his teacup, and, 
as he rose, it lurched in the saucer perilously. 

The girl’s voice was low and clear, as he had 
felt sure that it would be. The effect that she 
had on him was at once pleasurable and the re- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


95 


verse. He was filled with a quick desire to rouse 
her interest, but he had never felt more awkward, 
and for fully a minute after the introduction he 
could think of nothing to say to her, nor to her 
mother in her presence. 

“Tea, Helen?” 

“Please,” she said. 

“I was just saying to Mr. Jardine that the 
teapot typified civilisation,” said Lady Wrens- 
fordsley; “or perhaps Mr. Jardine was saying it 
to me — I don’t know that it matters — or that it’s 
a fact. The point is that it never struck me to 
think so till now, and that I shall drink tea the 
last thing at night without scruples any more.” 

“Do you have tea the last thing at night?” 
asked Maurice, painfully conscious that he was 
uttering an ineptitude. 

“It was very wrong of you to tell my mother 
anything of the kind, Mr. Jardine,” said the girl, 
composedly; “now she will drink two cups in- 
stead of one ! Are the buns hot, mother?” 

“They are supposed to be hot,” said Lady 
Wrensfordsley. “Mr. Jardine can tell you, if he 
is not too polite to be sincere.” 

“They’re very good,” he said, lifting the dish. 
“May I?” 

“Thanks,” said the girl; “can’t you assure us 
that buns are distinguished too? We have a pas- 


06 


THE WORLDLINGS 


sion for buns; we are constant to them even in 
the summer, and if they were only the type of 
something, we should be happier.” 

Her own aplomb intensified his discomfiture, 
and it was as if his unfortunate reference to 
civilisation had woven a net from which he 
couldn’t escape. He began to feel that he was 
looking a fool, but amid buns and tea his mind 
was benumbed, and an idea seemed as far away 
from him as did the girl herself. 

He was grateful that at this moment the foot- 
man announced Lady and Miss Savile, but be- 
fore long his relief gave place to a new feeling of 
irritation. The visitors were evidently on terms 
of intimacy here, and after a few minutes, Agatha 
Savile had fixed her large inquiring eyes upon 
him, and, for the time at least, made him her 
own. Primarily he had welcomed the opportun- 
ity to show that he was less stupid than he had 
been suggesting, but now, since the others no 
longer listened, he was annoyed as much by his 
recovered fluency as by the young woman’s pro- 
prietorial air. He was conscious that he himself 
was lending colour to her assumption of a mu- 
tual understanding, and perceiving himself in- 
competent to efface this impression without rude- 
ness, his resentment against her increased. 

The angle at which Lady Savile held her cup, 


THE WORLDLINGS 


97 


however, at last assured him that it was empty, 
and he promptly seized the chance it afforded 
him to shift his position. His gaze was now 
enabled to take the direction of his thoughts. 

“When do you go back to Whichcote, Lady 
Helen ?” he asked. 

“After Goodwood,” she said; “the season is 
very nearly over, isn’t it?” 

“Are you sorry?” 

“No, I’m very fond of Whichcote; there is al- 
ways an attraction about one’s home, don’t you 
think so?” 

“My own home is so new to me that I can only 
guess,” answered Maurice. “All the same, I can 
guess very well.” 

“You have travelled a great deal,” she said, 
“haven’t you?” 

“Yes, for years. I have spent half my life 
abroad.” 

“It must be very fascinating; I should love to 
travel.” 

“Though home is so dear to you?” 

“Oh, but home is never so dear as when one 
returns to it, you know. I was, somehow or 
other, very dull at Whichcote last winter, but 
when we came back from Algiers, the few days 
we spent at Oakenhurst were delightful to me. 
I think if this house hadn’t been taken, I should 


98 THE WORLDLINGS 

have begged to stay there and forego the season 
altogether.” 

“I am glad you didn’t, or I should hardly have 
met you so soon.” 

“You’ve been in Oakenhurst very little, I un- 
derstand. To me, of course, it has the charm 
of association — my childhood was passed there.” 

The word stirred his mind with the wish that 
he had known her in her childhood — with the 
enormous difficulty of imagining her as a child. 
He wanted to say something of it, but the instant 
in which it could be said naturally had gone while 
he hesitated; so, instead, he had recourse to a 
platitude and murmured : 

“One’s childhood is one’s happiest time.” 

This commonplace, which was rendered even 
triter by his disgust of it, found its way to Miss 
Savile. 

“Do you think so?” she said. “Do you? — 
you don’t?” 

“I think so, indeed,” he said; “my own was 
decidedly the happiest time of my life.” 

“How sweet!” said Miss Savile. “Now, I was 
such a shocking little pickle that I was always 
being punished. W asn’t I, Helen ?” 

The girl’s attention, however, had strayed. It 
had just been remarked that somebody’s death 
was a most merciful release for his widow, and 


THE WORLDLINGS 


99 


Lady Wrensfordsley was asking to be reminded 
to write a letter of condolence to her before they 
went out. 

Maurice rose and made his adieux. The mem- 
ory of the room, and the knowledge that he had 
never appeared to less advantage, lingered in 
his brain with almost painful vividness. He was 
depressed, and the depression, which was out of 
all proportion to the cause, deepened as he 
walked. He recalled his engagement for the 
evening with distaste, and suddenly his life looked 
to him as empty as he had found the period at 
Croft Court while he hungered for town. It re- 
vealed itself to him that in the whole world there 
was not a soul who cared for him, excepting, per- 
haps, the old man whose affection he held by de- 
ceit. He felt lonely and miserable. A passion- 
ate desire for sympathy possessed him, though he 
could not have put his sorrow into words. He 
wanted to feel the touch of a woman who under- 
stood ; he ached for a woman’s comprehension of 
a mood which he but dimly comprehended him- 
self. 


CHAPTER VII 


He had been considering where he should go 
when town began to empty, and had inclined 
towards Trouville, where there would be several 
fascinating persons of his acquaintance, but when 
the Cowes week was over, he went instead to 
Oakenhurst. The life he was leading had recent- 
ly filled him with self-contempt, and a longing 
had sprung up within him to be done with it all. 
He could not be unaware that the healthier frame 
of mind was due to the occasional meetings he had 
had with a girl whose air of fastidious purity had 
caused him to feel ashamed of himself; but he 
shirked the perception that the force which took 
him to the Court was the wish that their meetings 
should continue. 

He had not, during the last fortnight, failed 
to tell himself that in casting away the roses for 
the sake of beholding the lily he was renouncing 
the substance for the shadow, for of a surety no- 
body could be less interested in his proceedings 
than was she. In whatever degre of unworthi- 
ness he might stand beside her, he realised that 


THE WORLDLINGS 


101 


he would be a stranger to her. But the admira- 
tion she awoke in him was not diminished by the 
consciousness that he was forgotten as soon as his 
back was turned; nor since his visit to Chapel 
Street had he refused an invitation to a house 
where he hoped to see her because he knew that 
she would never remark his absence. 

God made Woman last, and she is the best of 
His works. The girl was not twenty-five: she 
had never spoken to Maurice a word that sufficed 
to distinguish her from the well-bred crowd in 
which she moved; no glimpse of her soul had 
been vouchsafed to him save that which every 
virtuous woman who has beauty shows in her 
gaze to every man who has imagination; yet she 
had lifted him from the mire without effort, and 
without will. 

At Oakenhurst, as was natural, he saw her 
often, and his knowledge grew of how much their 
vapid conversations meant to him; the knowledge 
grew that, though she might be silent, she held 
him by her presence. The poise of her head, the 
curve of her cheek, the folds of her dress, all 
these things stole into his being. Fancy was 
much kinder to him than she, and sometimes in 
his reveries he talked to her as freely as he could 
ever hope to talk to anyone now. Actually he 
progressed very slowly in her good graces, and 


102 


THE WORLDLINGS 


though he dared to seek no more than her friend- 
ship, her reserve humiliated him. 

One day he admitted something like it. He 
had lunched at Whichcote, and for a few minutes 
he found himself alone with her in the garden. 
He had never felt further from her than during 
the last half-hour; it had been almost as if they 
had met for the first time. 

“I can’t explain it,” he murmured; he was 
speaking as much to himself as to her. 

Her eyes wandered to him in mute interroga- 
tion; that interrogation of politeness which was 
the most he had ever roused in her. 

“I can’t explain why I find so little to say to 
you. It’s an odd confession, isn’t it? — not the 
sort of confession a tactful man would make — 
but it doesn’t matter, because you know I find 
little to say, whether I confess it, or not. I won- 
der if I may ask you something?” 

“Why not?” she said: “what is it you want 
to ask, Mr. Jardine?” 

“The inquiry’s even blunter than the confes- 
sion; I want to ask if you dislike me.” 

“Dislike you?” she said. Her eyebrows rose. 
“Why should I dislike you? What a strange 
idea!” 

“What an uncouth question, you mean,” said 
Maurice. “And that’s just it — I feel ‘uncouth’ 


THE WORLDLINGS 


103 


when I come near you. Pray don’t mistake me 
— you are all that is gracious — but I have an un- 
comfortable feeling that, whatever I do, you find 
it wrong.” 

“Have I suggested,” she said, “that you do 
wrong? It was dreadfully stupid of me if I have ; 
I ought to apologise to you.” 

“Oh, take me seriously,” he begged; “you 
know very well that if you owed me an apology, 
I couldn’t have said what I did. But you do 
suggest that I do wrong. Unconsciously your 
eyes suggested it just now when you turned to 
me; your voice suggests it sometimes when you 
answer. You typify a world that’s very new to 
me, Lady Helen, and you make me feel that I 
shall be a stranger in it as long as I live.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said, after a pause. “I’m 
afraid my manner must be unfortunate — I 
needn’t tell you that it isn’t intentional. You 
remind me of what a woman once satd to me. 
When we had become great friends, she said: 
‘Until I knew you well, you always gave me the 
feeling that my frock didn’t fit.’ 1 assure you 
that I’m really a very natural girl and that if I 
thought I had affectations, I should hate myself.” 

“You haven’t,” said Maurice. “To be what 
you are, is, I know, as natural to you as to 
breathe; that’s why I strike you as uncouth.” 


104 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“You keep insisting,” she returned, “on a word 
that’s the very last one I should have thought of 
using, and it is more than absurd of you. And 
I don’t know even now what my fault actually 
is!” 

“You, too, have used a wrong word,” he said. 
“Whether my choice of ‘uncouth’ was good or 
bad, there can certainly be no question of my 
pain being your ‘fault.’ I suppose the fact is 
that I am not so quick as I thought I was. We 
all have our vanities — mine is the belief that I 
acquire very readily. Of late I have set myself 
to acquire a great many things. I needn’t tell 
you that my life hasn’t been passed in society, 
because you’re perfectly aware of it. I went 
abroad when I was very young, and I had to work 
for my living with my gloves off. If you had 
been in New York, Lady Helen, or in Melbourne, 
or any other city that I’ve known, I should have 
been as far removed from the chance of being 
presented to you as is the poorest man in Lon- 
don now. Well, as I say, I determined to pick 
up all that I knew I lacked ; and to some extent, 
till I met you, I thought I had succeeded. Per- 
haps you’ve merely shown me how far one may 
deceive oneself, and the truth hurts a bit.” 

She did not reply at once ; she sat looking be- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


105 


yond her in a little perplexed silence. When she 
broke it, her tone sounded friendlier in his ears. 

“You’ve been very frank — I feel very hon- 
oured that you should have spoken so frankly to 
me — I won’t insult you by pretending to misun- 
derstand what you said. You mean that the life 
you’re leading is unfamiliar as yet; but because 
it’s unfamiliar, I think you’re inclined to imagine 
that it’s evident to all the world that you find it 
so. I’m not expressing myself very well — or, 
rather, I’m only expressing half of what it’s 
in my mind to say — but you must surely under- 
stand that one is judged superficially? I think 
even by our dearest we are only judged super- 
ficially. Certainly our acquaintances don’t look 
below the surface. For instance, you and I meet 
often,” she went on with a quiet smile, “but, as 
you just told me, you regard me as a much more 
classical person than I am. In the same way, 
your deficiencies are much clearer to yourself 
than to your neighbours ; if we don’t perceive all 
your virtues, we miss a great many of your 
faults.” 

“Faults,” said Maurice, “yes; but deficiencies 
— I doubt it ! My deficiencies limit my allusions. 
We come back to our starting-point — I have very 
little to say to you.” 


106 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“I think,” she said, “that in the last five min- 
utes you have found a good deal!” 

“I’ve prosed; I’ve talked about myself. I 
would much rather have had the ability to talk 
about you.” 

“If you had done that,” she said more formal- 
ly, “I’m afraid we should both have been bored. 
As it is, I’ve been very interested.” 

“You said one thing that especially interested 
me” replied Maurice in a quick effort to recover 
the lost ground; “you said that we were judged 
superficially even by our dearest. Do you think 
that’s true?” 

“I think so,” she said slowly, “yes; I think 
everyone must be conscious of a self that she’s 
a little shy of ; and there’s a difficulty about mak- 
ing it known to others even when she wants to. 
Some clever man — I don’t know who, because I 
am extremely ill-informed — wrote that words 
were given us to conceal our thoughts. It has 
often seemed to me that they do that even when 
we desire most intensely that they should express 
them.” 

Before he could answer, Lady Wrensfordsley’s 
voice was heard, and she made her reappearance 
in the company of a young man of perhaps eight 
or nine and twenty, whom Helen welcomed as 
“Bobbie.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


107 


“I don’t know if you’ve met Mr. Seymour, 
Mr. Jardine?” said Lady Wrensfordsley. “He’s 
my nephew; it’s quite the only recommendation 
he has.” 

Bobbie Seymour smiled pleasantly, and put 
out his hand. He had also, Maurice thought, the 
recommendation of good looks. He was well- 
built, and well-dressed, and well-mannered, the 
sort of young man who knows such charming 
women in Punch. 

“How d’ye do?” he said. “You won’t accept 
that as final, will you? I come to my aunt for 
advice, but never for a character.” 

“You may come for advice,” she said, “but 
you never take it. Mr. Seymour is an ornament 
of the War Office, Mr. Jardine. I have never 
understood what they do in the War Office — 
that was why I was glad when he went into it — 
but as well as I can make out, the duties consist 
entirely of applying for leave.” 

“Poor Bobbie!” exclaimed the girl gaily. “And 
he’s quite convinced he’s overworked — aren’t 
you?” 

“Awful shame,” he said with another of his 
pleasant smiles, “to talk such bosh, Aunt Sophy! 
We’re kept at it frightfully hard, I can tell you. 
How’s Pip?” he inquired of his cousin. 


108 


THE WORLDLINGS 


‘Tip’s cured,” she said; “he’s back again, and 
in the best of spirits.” 

“Bravo Pip ! I think I’ll go and have a look 
at him. Will you come?” 

“Yes,” she said carelessly; “if you’re so inter- 
ested, I don’t mind.” 

“Bobbie’s always interested when the trouble’s 
over,” said Lady Wrensfordsley. “While Pip 
was ill, the only suggestion Bobbie had to make 
was, ‘Send him to a vet.’ ” 

“Well, you’ve found out how good it was!” 
said the young man; he had joined in the laugh 
against himself genially enough. As he saunt- 
ered beside the girl across the lawn, Maurice 
could see that her face was turned to him as if he 
continued to amuse her. Since his advent the 
garden had looked less sunny to Maurice, and 
the new sense of intimacy that had begun to 
tingle in his veins seemed to have received a sud- 
den check. The shadow on his countenance was 
not lost upon Lady Wrensfordsley, and she con~ 
templated him with cordial eyes. 


CHAPTER VIII 


If Helen had remained single until the age of 
twenty-five, or its neighbourhood, it had not been 
for lack of offers. This, of course, is a cliche 
used about every girl who has passed her second 
season, but several of the offers made to Helen 
had had her mother’s warm approval. No at- 
tempt had ever been made to force her inclina- 
tions, however, and when she had declared that 
the idea was distasteful to her, the matter had 
always been allowed to drop. 

She was Lady Wrensfordsley’s only child, 
and although neither woman perfectly under- 
stood the other, the bond between them was a very 
strong one. The old Earl had been a good fel- 
low, and a bad husband. He had led a very fast 
existence on the turf, and lost large sums of 
money at Monte Carlo; he had also lost large 
sums of money at Ostend, and various Belgian 
resorts where the authorities met his views. His 
career had been as rapid as Hare and Hounds, 
and, as the hare, he had always dropped expens- 
ive paper in his trail. The title had died with 
109 


110 


THE WORLDLINGS 


him, and Lady Wrensfordsley, who was in pos- 
session of about four thousand a year, had secret 
memories of “poor George” which rendered her 
diffident of playing the part of Heaven in con- 
nection with her daughter’s marriage. 

None the less she desired that Heaven should 
make it to her own satisfaction; and the gloom 
that she had observed on Maurice’s face would 
have gratified her even more if she could have 
detected some encouragement in the girl’s. No 
prospect of seeing her so advantageously settled 
had hitherto occurred as the prospect latterly 
opened by his obvious admiration ; and the mother 
would have been less than a mother, and more 
than human, if she had not nursed hopes of his 
proposing. 

Her hopes were shared by Sir Noel. He was 
old; the name and the place meant a great deal 
to him; he would have liked much to see Maurice 
marry and to pat a grandson on the cheek before 
he died. The wish that his son should fall in 
love with Lady Helen had even formed in his 
mind before the impostor’s return from South 
Africa, and the delay before they met had irri- 
tated him more than Maurice had perceived. In 
the summer, the attraction that Whichcote evi- 
dently exercised had raised his spirits not a little, 
but when August and September had passed and 


THE WORLDLINGS 


111 


no signs of progress were to be discerned, he be- 
gan to grow impatient. 

“Philip,” he said one night, as they sat to- 
gether, “you ought to marry.” 

“To marry?” echoed Maurice; “what has put 
that idea into your head? I’m not a marrying 
man.” 

“But you must be a marrying man; it is re- 
quired of you — you have obligations that you 
can’t shirk. It is not as if you were nineteen; 
you have come to an age when you have duties. 
You always oppose things; it annoys me very 
much in you. You ought to stand for some con- 
stituency — you object to that. You ought to 
take a wife — you object to that . It appears to 
me that you object to everything that is essen- 
tial.” 

“In other words, I’m a failure?” said Maurice, 
with a nervous laugh. “Be patient with me, gov- 
ernor !” 

Chagrin struggled with affection in the old 
man’s regard. 

“You are not a failure, and you know that I 
am proud of you. I have not said much, but 
you can see. You know very well that it has 
cheered me up a great deal to have you with me, 
and — and I understand things; I appreciated 
your coming to me so often from town and neg- 


in 


THE WORLDLINGS 


lecting your pleasures for the sake of your fa- 
ther; you would not have done so once. Well, 
well, well, it is not to praise you that I have be- 
gun to talk — I am very vexed ! I say it is not as 
if you were nineteen, or as if I might live for 
many years; it will not be long before I am 
gone.” 

“For Heaven’s sake,” said Maurice, “leave 
that out! You may live for twenty years more, 
and I hope you will. You have given me every- 
thing that I wanted — every desire that I had 
you’ve fulfilled; your death would give me noth- 
ing excepting pain, and every time you refer to 
it, you hurt me a damned sight more than you 
know. Keep to me: you ask me to go into the 
House; well, I haven’t the ability, I couldn’t do 
it if I wanted to — it’s out of my line. If I had 
it in me to become a distinguished man, I’d fag 
at anything you chose, to please you. Believe 
me, it’s true! You ask me to marry: I daresay 
that to answer ‘I’m not a marrying man’ doesn’t 
explain as much as it means. I’ll only say that I 
haven’t been home a year yet; my — my liberty, 
with the means to enjoy it, is new to me.” 

“Your liberty? That was all right when you 
were in town. But his liberty cannot mean much 
to a man who lives as you live now. I have not 
once heard you say that you think of going away 


THE WORLDLINGS 


113 


from me, and you have been herd nearly three 
months. The means to enjoy your liberty, it 
seems to me, was a privilege you got tired of ve?7 
soon. If you value it so highly, why do you 
stop?” 

“Why do I stop? Well, why does everybody 
stop? There are plenty of men down here at 
the present time.” 

“Be frank with me!” said Sir Noel. “You 
can make me very happy. You’re very often at 
Whichcote: shall I see you marry that girl one 
day?” 

“Good Heavens,” exclaimed Maurice, “nol” 
The colour sank from his face, and the cigar be- 
tween his fingers shook. 

He had dealt a heavier blow than he under- 
stood, and for some seconds there was silence. 
At last the other said simply: 

“Why?” 

“ ‘Why’? There are a thousand reasons. One 
is enough — I am nothing to her.” 

Into the old man’s tones crept a tinge of re- 
stored hope. “But if she were willing to accept 
you?” he asked. 

“Why consider impossibilities? I tell you that 
I’m nothing to her — nothing. If she cares for 
anyone at all, it is for her cousin, who’s always 


114 . 


THE WORLDLINGS 


running down here. But it’s difficult to say! 
After all he is her cousin.” 

‘‘You can offer a very fine position, Philip, 
and she is not a child. ... If she were willing to 
accept you?” 

“She would never sell herself to anybody: you 
don’t know her!” 

“To sell? You are not a Bluebeard. And 
she has a mother to advise her. You — you can- 
not fail to admire her? You like her?” 

“She is very beautiful,” said Maurice unstead- 
%• 

“Then what’s your objection? You tell me 
there are a thousand reasons, but I hear only 
one, and that is very foolish. She is not in love 
with you, you say? Well, you ought to know. 
But there are many marriages made for other 
things than love ; women marry for an establish- 
ment, for esteem; life is not a romance. Besides 
I do not think she is a girl to fall violently in love 
with anyone.” 

“Don’t you?” said Maurice. “I can imagine 
her loving very deeply — when she meets the right 
man. But the subject’s preposterous; I’m as 
likely to be Prime Minister as to marry her.” 

“Why, why, why?” cried Sir Noel angrily. 
“You may say you are unlikely to marry her 
when you have proposed and been rejected. Wait 


THE WORLDLINGS 


115 


till you are rejected before you disappoint me in 
this, too! I have thought of it for a long time; 
I have not many hopes in my life, but I have 
hoped to see you with a son. You — you refuse 
everything I ask you; I was ambitious for you 
to make a public career, and you refused me. 
But you said just .now that you would do it if 
you could, and I believed you meant it. Well, 
I ask you something else! There is nothing to 
prevent your gratifying me in this ; it is no ter- 
rible sacrifice to take such a woman for your 
wife. You are a constant visitor; you have led 
the mother to think you have intentions ; will you 
propose?” 

“I can’t,” said Maurice; “don’t — I beg you, 
sir — don’t make a personal matter of it ; it can’t 
be done.” 

“You are obstinate,” said the old man, “you 
are — you are very hard. And you have behaved 
very badly; Lady Wrensfordsley will consider 
you have behaved very badly. Well, she will be 
justified! We will not talk about it any more.” 
He tapped the arm of his chair rapidly, and rose. 
“You have distressed me cruelly. I am going to 
my room.” 

Maurice was still very pale; to be left alone 
was a great relief to him, though his thoughts 
could take no agreeable turn. Obedience was 


116 


THE WORLDLINGS 


beyond him, but this was the* first difference that 
had arisen between Sir Noel and himself, and he 
realised that he must appear a dogged fool. P er- 
haps the emotions that the girl woke in him 
caused him to sympathise with the disappoint- 
ment that he had inflicted more acutely than he 
would have done otherwise. For an instant he 
revolved the idea of paying a fraction of what 
he owed by proposing with the conviction that 
the offer would be declined; but then he shrank 
from it as an insult to the woman that he hon- 
oured most. Moreover, a single act of compli- 
ance wouldn’t solve the difficulty: doubtless he 
would be required later on to propose to some 
other woman — who might accept him! 

The assertion that he had given Lady Wrens- 
fordsley cause to feel aggrieved kept recurring 
to him with dismay; but on reflection he was as- 
sured that her daughter’s manner, even more 
than his own, must render it impossible for her 
to entertain the supposition attributed to her. 
Nevertheless he had been unwise, he saw that 
now — and he would go to Whichcote less fre- 
quently; it might be well that Sir Noel had 
warned him ! 

The following morning he was met by the 
Baronet with considerable restraint, and, had he 
been less conciliatory, the breach between them 


THE WORLDLINGS 


m 


would have widened. As it was, they spoke to- 
gether by dinner-time with some semblance of 
freedom. But neither on that day, nor the next, 
was an opportunity afforded him for the usual 
reading, and it was evident to him that his ob- 
duracy had been taken deeply to heart. 

He began to think of returning to town. As 
the other had said, there had been little to keep 
him here, and now there was less than ever. But 
though he always meditated leaving on the mor- 
row, he could never bring himself to do it. 

He would not go to Whichcote for a fortnight ; 
but Oakenhurst held the chance of meeting her! 
It was only now, when he would not allow him- 
self to visit her, when he walked, or rode, praying 
for the sight of the familiar livery, and returned 
to the Court with the new-found hope that she 
and Lady Wrensfordsley might have called; 
when he accepted an invitation to one of the 
neighbours’ and counted the moments until re- 
lease, because she, too, was not there, that the 
full measure of the influence that she had at- 
tained upon him made itself clear. When a 
week had worn by, it seemed to Maurice that he 
had borne the separation for a month. The eter- 
nal roads, in which the carriage never appeared, 
were as insufferable as the house in which he 
spent hours listening for the sound of the hall- 


118 


THE WORLDLINGS 


door bell. Imagination, which showed her to 
him in a dozen familiar scenes, made him ache 
more fiercely for her presence. In (moments 
luncheon stuck in his throat while there flashed 
before him the dining-room at Whichcote, and 
he was seized with the impulse to pitch his reso- 
lution to the winds ; in others, he was humiliated 
to feel that, while an entire week had passed since 
he had been there, he was not missed. He loved 
her ; the truth was vivid, and he knew it. He was 
as far below her as the gutter from the star, but 
he loved her ! Cravings came to him sometimes, 
boyish and wild: cravings for an opportunity to 
prove it to her ; to break through her indifference 
by some heroic service; to die for her if necessary, 
only that he might leap into her life for a moment 
and see her understand. Of all the complications 
that his fancy had forecast on the homeward voy- 
age, not one had happened ; he was stabbed by a 
thing that had never presented itself to him 
among the possibilities — he loved. He could not 
blink facts any more, he could no longer juggle 
with terms — he loved her as a man loves the wom- 
an who holds the world for him; and now that 
he realised it, he would leave Oakenhurst at once! 

It was no compromise with duty that he rode 
over to Whichcote to say “good-bye” ; he did not 
intend to see her again till he was master of him- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


119 


self, and to have omitted a leave-taking would, in 
the circumstances, have been flagrant rudeness. 

The man told him that Lady Wrensfordsley 
was driving, and when he learnt in the .next in- 
stant that Helen was in, his heart swelled at the 
prospect of seeing her alone. 

There were no visitors to disappoint him, 
though a tete-a-tete promised him a happiness 
empty enough. She was arranging some flowers 
in a bowl, and he took a seat by the fire, and 
watched her hands. 

“My mother has gone to the Saviles’,” she 
said; “it is almost time she was home now. She 
wanted me to go too, but I was lazy. Aren’t 
these flowers pretty?” 

“Yes,” he said, “very pretty. I like the way 
you pull some of them up higher than the rest. 
Do they touch the water that way?” 

“Oh, yes, they touch the water,” she said. “I 
leave the stalks longer on purpose. Is it cold 
out?” 

“Yes, no,” he said, “no. Where are you going 
to put it now it’s done?” 

“On the bookcase,” she said. She moved the 
bowl carefully, and wiped her hands on her hand- 
kerchief, and sat down. “Well?” 

“Well,” he said, “talk to me!” 


120 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“What do you want to talk about?” she 
smiled. 

“Anything!” 

“That’s too vague.” 

“Anything you please. How long do you stay 
here — till the Spring, or do you go South?” 

“We may go to Cannes for a few weeks after 
Christmas, but I don’t know that we shall. We 
go to town for the season, of course.” 

“Do you look forward to it?” 

“I always look forward to amusement. Does 
it sound very frivolous of me?” 

“I don’t think you could be frivolous if you 
tried; you don’t look frivolous even when you 
arrange flowers.” 

“Oh, to arrange the flowers,” she said, “is a 
solemn duty; you’d say so if you saw how the 
servants do it.” 

“Then, I suppose,” said Maurice, after a slight 
pause, “I shan’t see you till we meet in town. 
I’m going away to-morrow.” 

“Are you?” she said. “I suppose you won’t, 
then.” 

“Even if I see you in town.” 

“Oh, one is bound to meet one’s friends in the 
season.” 

“I mayn’t be there in the season,” he said; 
“perhaps I shall go abroad again for awhile.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


121 


“Really? You are tired of England already ?” 

“No, I’m not tired of it, but it’s best for me to 
go.” He looked away from her, calling himself 
a coward. 

“Where do you think of going?” 

“I don’t know, I haven’t thought yet — some- 
where where I haven’t been.” 

“You should try India. I should think it must 
be immensely fascinating — and you could make 
sketches, or shoot things. Men generally prefer 
to shoot things, don’t they?” 

“I suppose, on the whole, it’s easier,” he said. 

“And then you could send us a tiger-skin, if 
the tiger would let you. Only, if he doesn’t, 
please don’t reproach me for the suggestion !” 

“Should you mind?” asked Maurice. 

“ ‘Mind’?” 

He found rebuke in the monosyllable. 

“I mean assuming the tragedy with the tiger.” 

“I should mind very much,” she said calmly; 
“wouldn’t you?” 

“And yet there are worse fates than an un- 
looked-for death.” 

“Worse?” 

“Far. I could die pluckily enough, I think — 
death is such a short affair. It’s life that is the 
test of heroes.” 

“How seriously you say that!” she said. “Do 


122 


THE WORLDLINGS 


you know you sometimes say things like nobody 
else, Mr. Jardine?” 

“I told you long ago that I hadn’t learnt how 
to talk to you yet. . . . Well, then, I had better 
not go and ‘shoot things’ ? And if I’m fortunate, 
I shall meet you in town after all?” 

“No doubt,” she said. “How quickly we’re 
travelling — we have got from India to Mayfair 
already! Here’s my mother.” 

Lady Wrensfordsley came in well pleased to 
find that he was there, and only a woman would 
have read her regret in her eyes when his plans 
were made known to her. For a few seconds she 
questioned if they had been born of the interview 
that she had interrupted ; and, deciding that they 
had not, she was perplexed. Maurice, who, des- 
pite the conclusion at which he had arrived, had 
been sensible of some slight apprehension, was 
entirely relieved by her manner. 

The wrench had been made. But the pain of 
it lingered. And the idea of going abroad was 
not to be dismissed from his mind so easily as he 
had dismissed the subject from the conversation. 
He knew perfectly that he would be as unwise to 
meet Helen in six months’ time as to continue 
their meetings now; and if he remained in Eng- 
land through the next season, he would be power- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


128 

less to resist his opportunities. However, he had 
taken the right course and done all that was nec- 
essary at present. Having said what he had said, 
he could avoid her for a year or more if he chose. 


CHAPTER IX 


Sir Noel had offered no opposition to the pro- 
posed departure, nor indeed made any comment 
on it ; only in the moment of good-bye he looked 
at Maurice wistfully. The appeal was involun- 
tary, and Maurice understood it to he so. It 
came back to him, among other things, as he sat 
alone in the chambers that he had formerly viewed 
with elation. He did not want to see anyone yet ; 
his solitude was dreary enough, but he felt that 
he would be infinitely lonelier in a crowd. He 
could not even pretend to laugh at himself as a 
sentimentalist. Whether the contingency that 
he had overlooked was to be called absurd or not, 
the thought of Helen dominated him. He would 
have given up everything that he had gained if 
the renunciation would have placed her in his 
arms. He did not for a second undervalue the 
advantages that he had won — he was human; 
but, being human, he found wealth a poor make- 
shift for the woman he loved. He had grasped 
all that he had sought, and it was insufficient for 
happiness. The fancy did not strike him — and 
the moral was imperfect — but he resembled the 

124 


THE WORLDLINGS 


125 


protagonist of the fantastic who is accorded his 
heart’s desire and whose hasty petition has omit- 
ted the chief essential for contentment. 

He had been back in town several days when 
he did what was required of him by calling upon 
Rosa Fleming. He had received a note from 
her begging him to oblige her with a loan of fifty 
pounds, for her resolution not to worry him for 
introductions did not prevent her worrying him 
for assistance when she found her income inade- 
quate ; and he took the cheque in his pocket. 

“I thought I was never going to see you any 
more,” she said. “I’ve missed you awfully. What 
a long time you stayed down there! Have you 
enjoyed yourself?” 

“It wasn’t particularly gay,” he answered. 
“Well, how have you been? I’ve brought you 
what you want.” 

“What a good fellow you are ! I was sorry to 
bother you again, but this rent is always due; and 
then I had to go out of town, and the hotel was 
very dear — everything seems to cost more than it 
ought to. You can stop what I owe you out of 
my next quarter’s money, you know.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said; “don’t talk about 
that. Where did you go? Folkestone, wasn’t 
it?” 

“Yes; I shouldn’t have gone away at all if you 


126 


THE WORLDLINGS 


had come back, but I was so melancholy in Lon- 
don all by myself. What do you say to this?” 
She laughed, and took a box of cigars out of the 
sideboard ; “the last time you came you had noth- 
ing to smoke; do you remember? You never need 
look at your cigar-case any more before you come 
— you’re provided for!” 

“Thanks,” said Maurice; “it’s very kind of 
you. I’ll have one now.” 

“Do! I think they’re all right ; I used to know 
a little about cigars. Well, what’s the news? It’s 
jolly to see you again. How’s Sir Noel?” 

“Sir Noel’s quite well,” he replied lamely. 

“You’ve not been quarrelling with him?” she 
exclaimed. “There isn’t anything wrong?” 

“Why should you think so? Did it sound like 
it?” 

“Tell me!” she said. “I thought by your face 
when you came in that something was the matter. 
What is it — anything important?” 

Maurice shook his head. “They’re very good, 
your cigars. Your attention is appreciated.” 

“Never mind my cigars ; I want to know what’s 
troubling you. Is he talking about your going 
into Parliament again? Is that it?” 

“No,” said Maurice, “that isn’t it. He wants 
something more difficult still.” 

“Well, then, tell me all about it. Who is to 


THE WORLDLINGS m 

hear your anxieties, if I don’t ? Y ou’re not afraid 
of boring me, are you?” 

“Perhaps I am. Anyhow it’s all over; it’s not 
worth discussing.” 

“Don’t be unkind,” she said. “I can’t gush — 
I’m not made that way — but your anxieties are 
mine too. I don’t mean your risks ; I mean what 
I say, your ‘anxieties.’ It’s so queer to me some- 
times to think that a year ago we didn’t know 
each other much — things have brought us very 
close together since. You’re a peg low; I’m go- 
ing to give you a drink first of all, and then I’ll 
have a cigarette with you and we’ll put our heads 
together. It’ll cheer you up to be with someone 
you can talk freely to.” 

She rang the bell, and a parlourmaid in a 
frilled cap and apron brought what was wanted, 
and said “Yes, madam,” and “No, madam,” in a 
hushed voice. The sight of Rosa with a parlour- 
maid retained its novelty to Maurice, and a little 
amusement crept into his eyes as he looked on. 
It was quite the last feeing that she meant her 
dignity to rouse in him. 

“So the old man has been making himself a 
nuisance?” she said when they were alone again. 
“I’ve often thought of you down there and won- 
dered how you stood it. What does he want? 


128 


THE WORLDLINGS 


Perhaps it isn’t so difficult as it seems — we may 
be able to get over it.” 

Maurice watched a smoke-ring meditatively. 
After all, there was no reason for reticence. He 
was averse from speaking Helen’s 'name to her, 
but her tone warmed him towards her, and he 
was athirst for somebody to sympathise with him. 

“He wants me to marry,” he said. 

She could not restrain a start. 

“To marry?” 

“Of course it’s impossible, and my refusal 
ruffled him.” 

“Why?” she said after a long pause. “I mean 
— I mean, why did you refuse?” 

“Good Heavens !” he cried, “how could I con- 
sent ? I’m not such a blackguard as that !” 

“No,” she said; “no, of course you couldn’t — 
I see! You could never marry any woman who 
— who was ignorant of what you’d done, could 
you? What did you say?” 

“I told him that I didn’t want to marry her — 
that I preferred my freedom.” 

“Pier?” She caught the pronoun up. “He has 
somebody in his mind, then — he wants you to 
marry a certain woman? Who is she?” 

“What’s the difference? One woman or an- 
other — I can’t marry anybody.” 

The colour was leaving her face rapidly. If 


THE WORLDLINGS 


129 


he had not been seeing Helen’s, he would have 
remarked the change. 

“Is that all?” she asked harshly. 

“That’s about all.” 

She began to laugh. “Why don’t you tell me 
the whole story? Do you think I’m a fool? 
You’re in love with her ! I thought the old man’s 
wish wasn’t enough to break you up like that. 
You’re in love with her, eh? Well,” — she strug- 
gled to get the friendliness back into her man- 
ner — “well, I’m awfully sorry for you, old boy, 
awfully sorry! It’s hard lines.” 

“It’s damned hard lines,” said the man, blind 
to her agitation. 

“She’s a swell, of course? Who is she?” 

“Yes,” he said, “she’s a ‘swell.’ But, as I tell 
you, it’s all over. Heaven knows when I shall 
see her again — not until she’s engaged to some- 
body else, I expect. I suppose we all make idiots 
of ourselve over a woman once. This is my first 
experience.” 

Each time that he evaded her inquiry and with- 
held the name, he stabbed her anew. At this in- 
stant she could have struck him for it. 

“Poor old boy,” she repeated, walking about 
the room. “I wonder if you know what I’m go- 
ing to say?” 


130 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“You’re not going to advise me to marry her?” 
he asked. 

She drew her breath sharply. His every word 
made the hopelessness of her aim more apparent. 

“Don’t,” he said, “because I’m weaker than I 
knew! Since I’ve been in town there have been 
moments when, if impulse could have given her 
to me, she’d be my wife to-night. He doesn’t un- 
derstand, but you — you know what I am. I want 
you to din it into me, to keep telling me that I’m 
a scoundrel.” 

“I’m not going to advise you to marry 
her,” she said, moistening her lips. “You’d be 
wretched with her ; you’ve too much conscience ; 
your life’d be a hell.” 

“That wouldn’t matter,” he said; “it’s her life 
I’m thinking of ; if she accepted me, I might ruin 
it. Suppose the truth came out — somehow — 
some day ? Oh, I know it isn’t likely to come out ; 
it’s almost certain that it never will come out 
now; but if it did? To have dragged her down! 
Besides, you’re right — I should have hours of 
agony. My God! if I had no other guilt to an- 
swer for than the sins of every man I should still 
feel ashamed when I touched her hand. At first 
she was only strange to me, I — I was embar- 
rassed: the other women I’d been introduced to 
were forgotten. I felt as far from her as from 


THE WORLDLINGS 


131 


the women I had watched as they drove by me 
when I was shabby and hungry in the streets. 
And then for a little while there was a satisfac- 
tion — I congratulated myself. ‘Money is even 
better than you dreamed/ I said ; ‘how it unlocks 
the doors! Bravo!’ And then the satisfaction 
passed as well. I suppose I’d begun to love her, 
though I didn’t realise it — and sometimes when 
I met her eyes, I thought ‘How would she look 
at you if she knew! Adventurer, imposter, if she 
knew!’ ” 

“You’d be wretched,” said Bosa again. “You 
did a wise thing in refusing. If you made her 
your wife you’d regret it to the day you died. 
Oh, I understand,” she went on tremulously, 
“how you must feel, and that the temptation 
must be pretty big! But, take my word for it, 
if you gave way you would be a fool, as well as 
a blackguard. You’d suffer remorse all the time, 
you wouldn’t be happy a bit — you aren’t the man 
to do a woman a wrong and not trouble about it.” 

She longed for him to go. Unfounded as her 
hope had been, she had nursed it for months, it 
had fastened upon her; and her disappointment 
was bitter, vivid. The battle between her judg- 
ment and her nature was wearing her out. It 
would have relieved her to beat her fists on the 
table and mutter hysterical oaths. To affect to 


132 


THE WORLDLINGS 


pity him, without preparation, before she had had 
time to steady herself from the shock, was an 
effort that could not last. 

She sat down, and lit another cigarette, and 
sought refuge in contemplative silence. It was 
for this, then, that she had schooled herself to 
leave him in peace — that he should fall in love 
with another woman in the meanwhile, and come 
to tell her of it! 

“I shall expect to see you often now you’re 
back,” she said heroically, after a long silence; 
“I must help you to get over this facer.” 

“You’re very good,” said Maurice, “but I don’t 
think we’ll say any more about it ; I mean to for- 
get. I’ll come to see you, but we’ll talk about 
everything except ” 

“Except what you’ll be thinking of!” 

“Except what I haven’t the right to think of.” 

“Are you at your rooms?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said; “why?” 

“Only that if you’ve got a photograph of her 
there, I’d like to see it. Or do you carry it in 
your pocket?” 

“You don’t understand,” he said, with sur- 
prise. “The attachment is all on one side, I 
haven’t her photograph anywhere. Good Lord, 
did you think she cared for me? I am nothing 
to her at all!” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


133 


“You might have stolen a photograph, 5 * she 
answered ; his statement did not console her in the 
least. The momentous question was, not whether 
he was loved, but whether he would propose. In- 
deed, that his devotion was not reciprocated 
heightened the peril ; a woman looked her best to 
a man while he was pursuing her — like a butter- 
fly to a boy; capture brushed the bloom off them 
both. 

He went at last, and he cast the shackles from 
her. By degrees the luxury of unrestricted ac- 
tion caused her pluck to revive. After all, she 
had good cards. His scruples, which she would 
take care to keep alive, were her four to a flush; 
and since he would feel debarred from marriage 
with other women as well, time should deal her 
the ace. The pool might be long in coming, 
longer than she had promised herself, but surely 
she was justified, even now, in hoping that she 
would win in the end? He might not fall to her 
from sentiment, nor from passion; but only to 
herself could he ever utter what was in his mind 
— and habit was a force, too. Her reflections en- 
couraged her. 

She had some slight expectation of seeing him 
after dinner on the morrow, and she held herself 
well in hand; but the evening passed while she 
waited to hear the bell ring. On the next, she 


134 


THE WORLDLINGS 


was more confident; she even put the cigar-box 
on the table in readiness for him. She put the 
cigar-box on the table for three evenings in suc- 
cession. 

Her fears began to reassert themselves ; and on 
the fifth morning after his visit she telegraphed 
to Bury Street, begging him to lunch with her. 

She had mentioned two o’clock in the telegram, 
and at half-past two she sat down to lunch alone. 
She was now exceedingly anxious, and, though 
she tried to persuade herself that Maurice had 
just gone out when her message arrived, she re- 
gretted that she had not sent a note by the par- 
lourmaid, who could have inquired whether he 
had left town. 

As the day wore on and no word from him 
reached her, she entertained the idea of driving 
to his rooms. But she was deterred by the 
thought that he might call at any moment. For 
the same reason she hesitated to leave the house 
after nightfall. It was only when eleven o’clock 
struck that she gave up all hope of his coming; 
and now she decided to end her suspense before 
she slept. 

In the hansom, she was mastered by the con- 
viction that the worst had happened — that he 
had returned to Oakenhurst. Her relief was in- 


THE WORLDLINGS 135 

tense when she heard that he was at home, and 
alone. 

She was kept waiting only a minute, and she 
found him with his gloves on; his hat and stick 
lay on the table. 

“You're a beauty!” she said; “I’ve been fright- 
ened out of my life about you!” 

“I just came in, and got your wire,” he ex- 
plained; “I’m awfully sorry. I've been out all 
day.” 

“And the other days?” said she. “I thought 
you were coming to see me again soon?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “I shouldn’t have 
been good company, so I stayed away. What 
did you come round so late for — what did you 
suppose was the matter?” 

“Your welcome is — is very warm,” she smiled. 
“I tell you I was anxious, I didn’t know what 
might be the matter; I was afraid you were laid 
up. I’ll sit down, if you ask me, and have a 
drink now I’m here.” 

“You had better loosen your things,” he said, 
“or you’ll take cold when you go out.” 

He wheeled a chair to the hearth as he spoke, 
and she stretched out her hand for the cigarettes. 
As he produced the tantalus, another telegram 
was brought in to him, and she understood before 
he passed it to her that it came from Surrey. 


136 


THE WORLDLINGS 


She fixed him with eager eyes. “What?” she 
murmured. 

“Sir Noel is ill,” stammered Maurice; “he 
wants me back I” 

“Back?” Her thoughts span. The dread of 
marriage, and the hope of death eddied in her 
mind confusingly. 

Maurice turned to the man. “Call a cab,” he 
said; and then glancing at the clock, “No, stop!” 
he added, “it’s no use — I can’t go till the morn- 
ing. Is the boy waiting?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

He pencilled a reply, promising to return by 
the earliest train. When the answer was dis- 
patched, there was no more to be done. He re- 
read the message: “111 in bed. Would like to see 
you. Consultation yesterday. Come as soon as 
possible.” 

Rosa and he looked at each other intently. 

“He wants me back,” he repeated; “I’m bound 
to go!” 

She couldn’t dispute it — there was no alter- 
native — circumstances were too strong for them 
both. She was about to say that perhaps he 
would not be detained long, when there was a 
second interruption. Somebody knocked at the 
door and opened it simultaneously, and a man 
strode in who was evidently familiar there. He 


THE WORLDLINGS 


187 


did not see Rosa until he was in the middle of 
the room, and then he started, with a quick 
apology. 

“I beg you ten thousand pardons, Jardine! 
I was outside when you drove up ; I thought you 
were alone.” 

"It’s — it’s all right,” said Maurice. “How are 
you? Let me present you to Mrs. Fleming. 
Captain Boulger — Mrs. Fleming.” 

“I have just brought Mr. Jardine had news,” 
said Rosa, recovering herself. “Sir Noel is very 
ill.” 


CHAPTER X 


Fred Boulger soon invented an excuse to 
withdraw, but Rosa’s leave-taking had to be made 
at the same time, and she could say no more in 
going than “You’ll be sure to let me know how 
you find your father on your arrival?” She 
threw all the significance that she could into the 
request, but she was incensed, not only by the 
interruption, but by the consciousness that a false 
impression might easily have been excited in the 
intruder’s mind, although Maurice had done his 
best to avert it by introducing her. As for 
Maurice himself, he was engrossed by the knowl- 
edge that he was returning to the Court and that, 
whether he wished it or not, he must speedily 
meet Helen again. 

When he reached the house in the early morn- 
ing, he learnt that the old man had been attacked 
by pneumonia. 

“Sir Noel was took ill the day after ’e called 
at Whichcote, sir,” said Cope. “Sir Noel drove 
over to her ladyship’s on Thursday afternoon, 
and Dr. Sanders considers that ’e must ’ave 


138 


THE WORLDLINGS 


139 


caught a chill, sir, though the day was quite mild 
and pleasant for the time of the year.” 

“What physician has been down? What did 
he say?” asked Maurice rapidly. 

“Sir David Parry, sir; ’e ’ad hopes, strong 
hopes. I understood from the night-nurse just 
now, sir, that Sir Noel ’ad passed a good night, 
and was still asleep.” 

Nearly half an hour went by before a message 
came that the Baronet was awake, and then 
Maurice went upstairs at once. The nurse walked 
out of the room with a rustle of the stiff skirts 
that nurses should not be allowed to wear, and 
he noted that while she had been drilled to deft 
hands, the training had not been extended to her 
noisy feet. 

“This is a bad business, governor,” he said. 
“But they tell me you’re soon going to be about 
again, eh?” 

Sir Noel nodded weakly; the smile that had 
lightened his face at Maurice’s entrance Tiad 
faded and left him very wan. In the big bed he 
seemed to have aged and shrunk. 

“Perhaps,” he said; “perhaps. I don’t know.” 
He spoke with great difficulty, and made fre- 
quent pauses. “It is good of you to come so 
quickly; I have been thinking about you all the 


140 


THE WORLDLINGS 


time. . . . We were not good friends when you 
went away; I have regretted it very much/’ 

“My fault,” said Maurice; “my fault, every 
bit of it — it’s for me to regret. Don’t grieve any 
more about that, governor. Why didn’t you 
wire me before?” 

“I did not want to bother you. ... You were 
amusing yourself in town when I dragged you 
away?” 

“Not a scrap. I’d have come last night, only 
there was no train.” 

“I wired very late, I know. I tell you, I have 
been thinking about you all the time, last night 
especially . . . and the nurse came in and asked 
if there was anything I wanted. Did you notice 
the nurse? I like her; she is very attentive; so 
is the day-nurse — the day-nurse reads very well. 
. . . You’d be surprised what patients she has 
had; she is quite a young woman, but what she 
has been through ! I must tell you some day of 
her morphia-habit case — extraordinary! . . . 
Well, well, that has nothing to do with it. What 
was I going to say? ... Yes! She came ki and 
asked if there was anything I wanted ; and I said 
I wanted a telegraph-form, and she sent it at 
once. You’ll stop, Philip, now that you are 
here?” He broke off, coughing. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Maurice, “I’ll stop. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


141 


What did you go driving in the cold for? Why 
didn’t you take better care of yourself?” 

Sir Noel sighed. 

“Ah, it was not the drive,” he answered; “the 
doctors don’t know. They said that, with my 
bronchitis, either exposure to cold, or worry, 
might be the cause. I told them I was not wor- 
ried ... so they put it down to the drive; but 
— but your refusal hurt me a good deal. . . . 
However, it can’t be helped ; I must put up with 
it.” His voice had grown fainter. “Now leave 
me,” he added; “you will come back presently; I 
am tired.” 

The unexpected reply gave Maurice a disquiet- 
ing sense of responsibility. If the illness was 
indeed attributable to his determination to do 
right, he felt that he had received a poor reward 
for his effort. While he breakfasted, the hope 
rose that the invalid had exaggerated — that he 
had adapted the medical opinion to his require- 
ments; but when the local practitioner paid his 
visit the idea was banished. 

“Sir Noel is suffering from patchy pneu- 
monia,” said Dr. Sanders. “He’s better than he 
was, oh yes ! But there’s a good deal of it creep- 
ing about the left lung still, and the condition’s 
very dangerous, especially late in life.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


14 $ 

“What,” Maurice asked, “do you think it is 
due to? The drive?” 

Dr. Sanders shrugged his shoulders. 

“Possibly — though Thursday wasn’t a day I 
should have thought could hurt your father. Of 
course in Sir Noel’s normal state of health, 
anxiety’d explain it too — his liver isn’t what it 
might be, you know, and there’s the bronchial 
trouble besides. Anxiety’d certainly explain it, 
but he tells me he hasn’t had any. Still, he’s 
going on very nicely, Mr. J ardine. With care — 

with care, and an even temperature ” He had 

said all he knew, and it was plain that further 
questioning would result only in his repeating 
himself. 

By-and-by Maurice went to the bedside again, 
but his presence there was not desirable fre- 
quently, nor for more than a few minutes at a 
time. The hours were long, and the corrobora- 
tion of the old man’s statement harassed him. 
The illness was his fault — or, if not his “fault,” 
at least his doing! The fact disturbed him more 
because he could not make amends for it and he 
foresaw that he would be asked to do so, and 
that his second refusal would appear more un- 
gracious than his first. He learnt that Lady 
Wrensfordsley had either called, or sent a ser- 
vant with an inquiry every day, and he won- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


14 & 


dered whether she would call this afternoon. 
About four o’clock, when he was told that she 
and Helen were in the cedar drawing-room, he 
could not for a moment affect to believe that he 
was sorry. 

“We couldn’t go away without seeing you 
when we heard you were here,” she said. “We 
can’t stop, but servants’ answers are always so 
unsatisfactory. How is Sir Noel going on?” 

“He’s better, so the doctor says. He had a 
good night. It was immensely good of you to 
come in! And all your messages — I want to 
thank you for them, too.” 

“We feel very guilty,” remarked the girl; “it 
was in driving to us that he took a chill, wasn’t 
it? The news must have been a great shock to 
you?” 

“Yes,” said Maurice; “my father is just well 
enough to be reproached, and I’ve been telling 
him how badly he behaved in not letting me know 
before.” He turned to Lady Wrensfordsley. 
“Do please stay a little,” he begged; “it’d be 
charitable of you !” 

They remained about a quarter of an hour. 
She hoped that he would go over to them as soon 
as it was practicable for him to seek a little 
change. There was tea; there was the reference 
to the subversion of his plans, and the inevitable 


144 


THE WORLDLINGS 


expression of regret that they should have been 
frustrated by circumstances so serious. He held 
Helen’s hand again for an instant. And the sun 
sank. 

For a week, while Sir Noel’s health slowly irm 
proved, he saw her no more. Then he called at 
Whichcote. There had been nothing to prevent 
his going sooner, but he had sworn that he 
wouldn’t go. The step made, however, he took 
no further oath, but went often. He was likely 
to be kept at Oakenhurst for a couple of months, 
and he told himself that he could not repay Lady 
Wrensfordsley’s friendliness with incivility. 
Every day his longings crept closer to the edge of 
his resistance. Thoughts came which he no 
longer strove to put away from him. He began 
to wonder if it was true that he would be ac- 
cepted if he proposed. He did not intend to pro- 
pose, but there was no harm in supposition — or 
he said that there wasn’t — and to imagine him- 
self Helen’s husband made his brain swim. Some- 
times he questioned if he had magnified the im- 
possibility of an offer. He had surely passed 
his danger? It was scarcely conceivable that ex- 
posure could befall him now. Only one person 
was in the secret, and apart from their comrade- 
ship, her tongue was tied by the strongest of all 
interests ; to betray him would be to lose her own 


THE WORLDLINGS 


145 


income, and to render herself liable to prosecu- 
tion. He was justified in believing that to count 
Rosa Fleming among the obstacles was to create 
a bogey. What then? The arrival on the scene 
of someone who had been intimate with Jardine 
abroad? The likeness and the circumstances 
would withstand a stronger assault. His con- 
science? Yes, his conscience was to be reckoned 
With, but it wouldn’t injure Helen; shame or no 
shame, she would see only the obvious, and oc- 
casionally he felt that for the joy of moments 
with her he was prepared to pay any price that 
came out of his own pocket. He was never so 
near the brink as when he found Mr. Seymour 
at the house, for then his doubt whether he could 
win her if he tried was fiercest, and his moribund 
strength had to contend not only with love, but 
with jealousy. 

These were not the only minatory circum- 
stances. His apprehensions had not misled him : 
Sir Noel had speedily revived the subject of his 
desire. His initial venture had been tentative 
enough — a half -veiled lament; but the next time 
he spoke more plainly. He was an old man, with 
but one wish — why was Maurice so obdurate? 
Did he dislike her? To reply that he did dislike 
her Maurice felt would be ludicrous, and he sim- 
ply repeated that he did not want to marry. Stich 


146 


THE WORLDLINGS 


an answer could avail him nothing. The other’s 
appeal gained in force; he was ill — it was “his 
son’s attitude” that had made him ill; he had de- 
served better treatment at his hands ! The situa- 
tion was not without pathos ; it gave to the invalid 
an advantage which was pressed to the fullest ex- 
tent, and the man who was battling with his weak- 
ness had to listen to daily denunciations of his ob- 
duracy. At Whichcote, and at home, he was 
constantly tempted; even his solitude became 
vivid temptation. When November had passed, 
he had succumbed mentally more than once. 

Meanwhile the frequency of Seymour’s visits 
had grown no less irritating to Lady Wrens- 
fordsley, and one afternoon, when she and her 
daughter were alone together, she said: 

“I am distressed at something I have heard 
about Bobbie. I don’t like the way he is going 
on in town. We aren’t supposed to know any- 
thing about it, of course, but I’m afraid he is the 
reverse of steady.” 

“So many men are extravagant, mother,” said 
Helen, stooping over Pip. 

“Bobbie’s position doesn’t warrant extrava- 
gance; and there is no probability that it will 
ever improve. I have the weakness to be very 
fond of him, but between ourselves, I admire few 
people less. I know his type so well; he is very 


THE WORLDLINGS 


147 


selfish, and will get himself into difficulties with 
the utmost cheerfulness to the end of the chapter. 
Lady Saviie tells me that he gambles shock- 
ingly.” 

As a matter of fact, the information had not 
affected her so much as it would have done if it 
had come from any other source. She knew that 
Lady Saviie had been unremitting in her in- 
quiries at the Court since Maurice’s return, and 
his allegiance to Whichcote must have damped 
the fair Agatha’s hope considerably since the 
afternoon that she had monopolised him in Chapel 
Street; a little bitterness, a maternal alacrity to 
exaggerate unwelcome news, was to be expected. 
But she had been meaning to discuss her nephew 
with the girl for some time. 

“Bobbie and I have always been great friends,” 
murmured Helen. Her tone said: “Please don’t 
run him down to me ; it hurts !” and Lady Wrens- 
fordsley understood it. 

“Friends,” she replied, “oh yes; you have a 
cousinly regard for him. There’s nothing more 
than that between you, I’m sure?” 

“And if there were?” said Helen, still play- 
ing with the dog. 

“I should lose my very high opinion of your 
good sense, darling, and think less of Bobbie still. 
But you are only in fun?” 


148 


THE WORLDLINGS 


There was a short silence, in which Lady; 
Wrensfordsley’s misgivings mounted rapidly. 

“Helen?” she exclaimed; “Helen, you weren't 
serious? Why don’t you answer me?” 

“Bobbie has never asked me to marry him,” 
said the girl, “if — if that is what you want to 
know. If he did, perhaps ” 

“If he did, perhaps what?” 

“If he did You’re my mother ; I may own 

it to you I” 

“My dear child!” said Lady Wrensfordsley. 
“Yes, I am your mother, and you know how much 
you are to me. I hadn’t a suspicion that it was 
so bad; I thought — I was afraid of a flirtation. 
Oh, Helen, I blame myself awfully; I’m so 
sorry!” 

“It’s nothing to be proud of, is it, to feel like 
that about a man who hasn’t asked you! I’m 
ashamed of having said it. Am I horrid?” 

“Not horrid, dear — a little foolish, that’s all; 
for it can never come to anything.” 

“You don’t want me to marry for position, 
mother?” 

“No, I only want you to be happy. But you 
wouldn’t be happy with Bobbie, even if I paid his 
debts and let him take you. You’re not the 
woman to respect a husband who owed you every- 
thing.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


149 


“He would go into the House. I should make 
him ambitious, and he would succeed in politics 
if I were his wife.” 

“He would succeed in nothing with a compara- 
tively wealthy wife ; he would be content with the 
success he had achieved. The man who would 
he of service to the country is Mr. Jardine — he 
has ideas.” 

“Mr. Jardine? Mr. Jardine is half a radical, 
and the other half a bore.” 

“Because he is attracted by you and Bobbie 
doesn’t care for him?” said Lady Wrensfordsley 
more bluntly than was her habit. 

“Is he attracted by me? I’m sure I never 
think about it.” 

“You know very well he is attracted by you; 
and I should be glad if you did think about it — 
I like him.” 

Helen looked at her, and gave a little mirthless 
laugh. 

“What a long way round you take, mother — 
even with me!” 

“He’s an excellent fellow, dearest,” said Lady 
Wrensfordsley, “and you would never have any 
occasion to regret it, I’m convinced.” Her mind 
was less easy than her manner, but tact told her 
that to say any more would be a mistake. 

The girl was relieved that the discussion was 


150 


THE WORLDLINGS 


allowed to drop. She was angry with herself 
for her confession. It had been premature, an 
impulse; it was a thing that she felt it would 
humiliate her to remember. But she had been 
wounded by the disparagement of Seymour, and 
her loyalty had sought to check it. In her heart 
she had known for some time that he was more 
to her than their relationship explained ; whether 
she actually loved him was a question that she 
had not permitted herself to face — and that she 
was able to avoid it, in truth supplied the answer 
— but, at least, she had a sentiment for him that 
no other man had stirred in her. She wondered 
again if the cousin who was called selfish and 
weak had, where she was concerned, been stronger 
than most men, because he wasn’t a match for 
her. Perhaps that she had to wonder was her own 
fault, she reflected ; she had so dreaded to cheapen 
herself that she might have repulsed him uncon- 
sciously. 

She was crediting him with a heroism that he 
was far from possessing, for Mr. Seymour’s 
demeanour had not been less serious than his 
feelings. To say that he was not fascinated by 
her, or that the idea of telling her that he loved 
her had never presented itself to him would be 
false; but it delighted him to avow a passion for 
any pretty woman. To be keenly miserable 


THE WORLDLINGS 


151 


about a woman for a week was one of his greatest 
joys. And he preferred his divinities married; 
the thought of double harness made him restive. 
Besides, cui bono? His aunt would have a fit if 
Helen accepted him, and mothers’ fits told in the 
end ; the luxury of a love-scene wasn’t worth the 
reproaches that would be levelled at him. ISTo, 
he couldn’t afford it; Aunt Sophy was too use- 
ful to be offended by a folly that she would never 
forgive ! 

At no time had he had more cause to be thank- 
ful for not having committed himself to the 
blunder of a declaration than he had a week or 
so after the conversation about him took place. 
Lady Savile’s report had been true enough, and 
now he had given an I.O.U. for over two hun- 
dred and twenty pounds, across a whist-table at 
the Turf Club. It was no more possible for him 
to find the money without Lady Wrensfordsley’s 
help than to find thousands, and it had been nec- 
essary for him to send the cheque. Fortunately 
it was on a Thursday that he had lost the money, 
and he had not posted the cheque until the next 
afternoon, assuring himself of two clear days be- 
fore it could be presented. But he felt very ill. 

He went down to Whichcote pale and nervous. 
If she refused to enable him to make things right 
as soon as the bank opened, he would be dis- 


152 


THE WORLDLINGS 


graced; and the sermon that had accompanied 
her latest loan to him recurred discour agingly. 
He hoped that there would be a favourable op- 
portunity for his appeal — in these matters the 
right moment meant so much — but later than the 
morrow he could not wait, and at the thought of 
having to blurt out his errand like a schoolboy 
he trembled. On consideration he decided that 
“while he was about it he might just as well say 
he owed two hundred and fifty. That would 
put a pony and more in his pocket !” 

The opportunity did not occur till the next 
morning; indeed he could not feel that it had 
occurred then, but between breakfast and church- 
time, while Helen was dressing, he found his 
aunt alone, which was at least better than having 
to beg for an interview. 

“Am I interrupting you?” he asked. She was 
writing at her desk. 

“Not in the least. There are one or two notes 
I must answer, that’s all. What a nuisance a 
Sunday post is!” 

“Most posts are!” he said. “There’s a lack of 
variety about the letters one gets; they always 
begin, ‘Sir, I am surprised’ — creditors never seem 
to outgrow the capability for surprise.” 

“Oh?” she murmured. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


15S 


“Only some debts are more terrible than 
others.” 

“To be sure,” she said; “of course. The Ob- 
server is there, if you’d like to look at it.” 

He did not want to look at it; he sat down, 
and ruffled it impatiently, and put it aside, and 
got up again. 

“By-the-by, I wanted to speak to you about 

— about a debt of mine. I’m ashamed to say 

But I am interrupting you, I see !” 

“ J ust a moment ! What day does the 20th fall 
on, do you know?” 

“No, I don’t know.” 

“Never mind. . . . Now, my dear boy, I am 
quite at your service. Go on; you wanted to 
speak to me, you said?” 

“Well, to be frank, I’m in a deuce of a mess. 
It sticks in my throat to acknowledge it, but I’ve 
had a facer. I hoped I should be able to pull 
through, and I haven’t pulled through — I’ve got 
deeper. Now I don’t know where to turn. I’m 
absolutely to blame, of course — a gambler and an 
idiot — and I don’t attempt to make excuses for 
myself; but the fact remains that I feel like put- 
ting a bullet through my head, and that if I can’t 
meet a cheque by ten o’clock to-morrow, it would 
be about the best thing for me.” 


154 < 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“What’s the amount?” asked Lady Wrens- 
fordsley, coldly. 

“Two hundred and fifty. If I could only get 
clear this time, I’d ” 

“Make some more good resolutions ? My dear 
Bobbie, two hundred and fifty pounds is a large 
sum, and you forget how often I’ve heard this 
sort of talk. I’m not a rich woman. I am very 
sorry for you, but ” She shook her head. 

“I’d make them and keep them,” he put in 
eagerly. “I would, I swear it! It’s a tremend- 
ous favour, of course, but it means that I’m ask- 
ing you to save me from ruin. If you’d lend me 
what I want this once, I’d — well, there’s noth- 
ing I wouldn’t do for you, Aunt Sophy! I’d be 
grateful to you as long as I lived!” 

She looked beyond him thoughtfully, toying 
with one of the rings on her fingers. 

“There are not many people I should feel in- 
clined to help in such a fashion,” she said at last. 
“But I’m foolish enough to be fond of you, as it 
happens; indeed, after Helen, I am fonder of 
you than of anyone I know.” 

“It’s very kind of you to say so.” 

“It’s certainly saying a good deal, for Helen 
is quite all I have to live for.” 

He mumbled deprecation. 

“You need not be polite — it is the truth. Al- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


155 


most the only thing I look forward to in life is 
to see her desirably settled.” 

“There’ll be no difficulty about that, I should 
imagine,” said Seymour, as yet a little uncertain 
of her trend. 

“You think not, eh?” 

“Helen is too charming not to be able to marry 
as she pleases.” 

“Yes, but I want her to please me, too. Do 
you know I have sometimes feared that there was 
a silly flirtation between yourself and her, Bob- 
bie?” 

“Between us?” he cried, now following her per- 
fectly. 

“It would be too unkind of you if it were so! 
You know that it could lead to nothing; I should 
blame you very much.” 

“I should blame myself!” he laughed. “My 
position would hardly justify me in proposing to 
her!” 

“Well, no,” she said, smiling too. “As a man 
of the world, you see it, of course. You’re a 
dear boy, but not eligible.” 

He admitted it again, cheerfully. Things had 
taken a promising turn; he wished that he had 
made the sum three hundred. 

“But Helen, a young girl, might mistake your 
attentions for something serious; and other peo- 


156 


THE WORLDLINGS 


pie — other men — might be misled also. Lady 
Savile as good as asked me if you were engaged 
to her; that kind of thing is very — very detri- 
mental. It wouldn’t be nice of you, Bobbie, es- 
pecially at a time when I am willing to come to 
your rescue, to stand in your cousin’s light.” 

Seymour drew a deep breath before he an- 
swered. “My dear Aunt Sophy, I should be im- 
mensely sorry!” he said. “As a matter of fact, 
after I go back this afternoon I’m afraid it will 
be some little time before I see either of you 
again, because I can’t come down at Christmas 
after all. I shouldn’t be able to stand in her light 
if I were fool enough to want to do such a thing.” 

“Really?” said Lady Wrensfordsley; “you 
won’t be with us at Christmas? Well, I daresay 
you’ll find a livelier party somewhere else. 
What’s the time? — you go this afternoon, you 
say. I had better give you the cheque now, 
then.” She turned to the desk again, and picked 
up her pen. “By the way,” she added, “you 
might perhaps — er — mention to Helen ... I 
mean you might let her know that you don’t re- 
gard the stupid affair seriously. There’s always 
a way of conveying these things, and as you 
mayn’t meet each other for months, it might be 
as well to let her understand that there’s noth- 
ing in it when you say good-bye.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 157 

“Certainly,” said Seymour. He took the 

cheque. “I have no words ” 

“No,” she said, “don’t try to find any. I don’t 
want you to thank me. That’s all right, Bobbie. 
But don’t go getting yourself into difficulties any 
more!” Two hundred and fifty pounds was a lot 
of money, but she had not often drawn a cheque 
with a greater sense of satisfaction. 


CHAPTER XI 


When Seymour mentioned during luncheon 
that he should not be with them at Christmas, 
the carelessness of his announcement hurt the 
girl. There had been various references between 
them to Christmas latterly; several persons were 
expected and there was some idea of theatricals, 
in which he had offered to take part. He had, 
in point of fact, professed himself willing to carry 
on a tea-tray, with the secret hope of being cast 
for the lover. For an instant she wondered how 
their plans could have slipped his memory, and 
then, with a wave of indignation, she felt that he 
had been banished. 

His air, however, did not support the theory, 
and she was puzzled; she could not avoid seeing 
that he was far gayer now than when he had ar- 
rived. The respite from anxiety had, indeed, 
sent his spirits up to par, and the cheerfulness 
with which he made little jokes and laughed at 
them himself, was obviously genuine. His em- 
barrassment did not occur till he was alone with 
her; and their tete-a-tete was not to be yet, for 

158 


THE WORLDLINGS 


159 


Lady Wrensfordsley was far too diplomatic to 
betray any eagerness to efface herself. 

However, between luncheon and tea the time 
came, and he hoped that Helen would question 
him. As she did not, it devolved upon him to 
introduce the subject. He kicked the coal for in- 
spiration. 

“Awful bore about Christmas !” he said. “Isn’t 
it?” 

“A bore?” she said; “you mean about your 
not coming down? Yes, it’s rather a pity.” She 
was manifestly resolved not to inquire why his 
intentions had been changed, and her reserve 
made his task more difficult. The next moment, 
though, he turned it to account with some dex- 
terity. 

“Don’t be high-and-mighty, Helen! I should 
have told you about it first, only you were so 
un-get-at-able all the morning. You might say 
you’re sorry when a fellow can’t come.” 

She gave him a quick smile. 

“I was sore, a tiny bit,” she owned, “but it’s all 
a)ver now; we won’t quarrel just when you’re 
going away. If you can’t come, you can’t!” 

“Perhaps it’s just as well that I can’t,” he 
murmured. 

He said it as if by impulse, but the best acting 
in the world could not have prevented her 


160 


THE WORLDLINGS 


thoughts flying to her mother again. Then he 
had been lectured after all! He had been told 
he was in the way ! 

“How?” she said slowly. “Why ‘just as 
weir?” If he answered: “Because I’m fond of 
you and your mother has reminded me I’m a 
beggar,” her whole heart would go out to him. 

“Oh,” he said, “just as well on your account. 
People’ll begin to think I’m in love with you if 
I’m always hanf T g about. You know we have 
flirted, Helen, desperately!” 

The reply streng ifened her suspicion, but the 
tone in which it was made was the cruellest slight 
she had ever endured. There was no renuncia- 
tion in it — she could not deceive herself; if he 
had been given a hint, it had quite evidently had 
his cordial approval. She was cold with an aw- 
ful fear that he might have detected her tender- 
ness for him — that he might be reading her a 
lesson; and she would have given ten years of her 
life at the instant to prove to Jim how superflu- 
ous it was. 

She forced her eyes, wide with amusement, to 
his face. 

“I didmft know it,” she said; “so we have 
‘flirted desperately’ — you and I? Oh, Bobbie, 
how very unprincipled of you! What a risk I 
have run — if I had only dreamed!” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


161 


Seymour looked a little uncomfortable. 

“You know I didn’t mean that at all,” he said, 
reddening; “I only meant that people might 
think there was something in it. I’m not such 
a conceited ass as to suppose ” 

She would hear no more, and she cut him short 
with laughter ; but it rang false in her ears. Did 
he guess ? It was the one question she kept ask- 
ing herself. The thought that she — for whom 
the only reproach that men had ever found was 
that she was cold — might be s* ding before him 
like a schoolgirl, rebuked for sentimentality, was 
piercing her. Ten years 01 ler life? If now he 
had cried to her that he loved her, and that her 
humiliation had been caused only by a jest, she 
would have thanked Heaven for the chance to 
perjure herself and refuse him. 

Her shame bowed her when he had closed the 
door. Of a truth she had shaken his vanity se- 
verely, but she had lost the composure necessary 
to believe that she had deceived him at all. If 
he had always guessed her folly, or if her mother’s 
greater, and unpardonable, folly had illumined 
his perception, no mere words could have served 
her. She leant against the mantel-shelf, her head 
resting on her arm. Tears of anger sprang to 
her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. She hated 
herself and him the more because she was crying ; 


162 


THE WORLDLINGS 


and again and again she longed for a proposal 
from him, only that she might convince him that 
she didn’t care for him and recover her self- 
esteem. 

It was like this that Maurice found her ten 
minutes later. She made a valiant effort, but her 
eyes were wet ; and he was too fond of her to be 
competent to ignore the fact. 

“I startled you,” he stammered; “forgive me!” 

“I didn’t hear you come in. My head aches — 
I’m not myself.” 

“I can’t bear to see you grieve,” said Maurice; 
he had never spoken to her so spontaneously. 
“Is there anything that I can do? Tell me — I’d 
do anything in the world to save you pain.” 

She lifted a smile to him, deprecating his earn- 
estness with convention. 

“Oh, no; it’s very kind of you, but it was noth- 
ing. Pray don’t look so anxious. We women 
make such a fuss about a trifle, you know.” She 
moved to leave him. 

“Ah, Helen!” he exclaimed, “Helen!” 

“Mr. Jar dine?” 

“Yes, ‘Helen’ — ‘Helen’!” His arms ached to 
hold her, and he remembered nothing but his love 
and her distress. “I have been hungry to call 
you ‘Helen.’ Oh, my Love, I love you. To see 
you cry! I didn’t know you could cry — you! — 


THE WORLDLINGS 


163 


you’ve seemed so stately to me and so far away 
— and then, in a second, your tears brought me 
nearer to you than all the months. I love you. 
Dear, I love you.” 

She stood pale and thoughtful, and he trem- 
bled in her silence. 

“I’m not worthy,” he said. “Oh, I know — 
under your feet. But no shade of care shall ever 
touch you. . . . I’ll only live to give you happi- 
ness. ... You would turn my life into a heaven, 
and I’d worship you. . . . There’s no one like 
you. If I could tell you what you are to me, 
you’d pity me. But I can’t — I become a boy — 
you take my words away.” 

“You think so much of me as that?” 

He drew nearer to her. “Are you giving me 
hope?” he asked. 

“Ah,” she said, half playfully, “if I’m so very 
wonderful, I should be selfish, shouldn’t I, to re- 
fuse?” 

“May God protect you, and let me!” gasped 
Maurice. He kissed her hands — he did not dare 
as yet to touch her lips. “You’ve made me the 
happiest man on earth.” 

Now her mother’s voice was heard; and the 
next moment she came into the room. 

“Bobbie’ll miss his train if he doesn’t make 
haste,” she said: “where is he?” 


1 64s 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“Lady Wrensfordsley,” said Maurice, “will 
you give your daughter to me? I don’t deserve 
her, but all my life I mean to try.” 

She embraced them with a gaze. 

“This is a surprise indeed,” she faltered. “But 
— but yes, from my heart! There’s no man I 
should grudge her to so little.” She opened her 
arms, and Helen went to her passively. 

“I should like Bobbie to know, before he goes, 
mother,” murmured the girl. 

Almost as she spoke, he joined them, in haste 
to say good-bye, and Lady Wrensfordsley said; 
“You must spare time to offer your congratu- 
lations first!” 

Seymour looked from his cousin to Maurice, 
and back again, genuinely astonished. 

“What? No, really?” he exclaimed. “By 
Jove, no end of good wishes to you both? So 
that was why you laughed?” he added under his 
breath. 

“That was why I laughed!” 

“I hope you’ll be tremendously happy!” 

She tendered a careless hand. “So good of 
you,” she said. 

Her deep satisfaction might have shown her 
that her feeling for him had been shallow, but 
her feeling for him had been a weakness that she 
intended never to think about again. Her mind 


THE WORLDLINGS 


165 


was more occupied in questioning her sentiments 
for Maurice. Had she acted wisely? She had 
been prepared for a proposal from him long ago, 
and had meant to decline it, but the circum- 
stances had been favourable for him, and more- 
over his words had touched her. Yes, she be- 
lieved she would be happy enough with him. 
When she had called him a bore, she had been 
thinking of his too obvious homage, and since she 
was to be his wife, his homage wouldn’t be unde- 
sirable. She hoped he would not expect devotion 
in return, however; it was quite impossible for 
her to yield him that, and she would be sorry if 
their marriage disappointed him. At any rate he 
could never say that she had professed anything. 
In church she would have to do so, of course — she 
recalled the fact with distaste — but then the wed- 
ding-service was a form which no woman whom 
she knew took seriously. Presumably men didn’t 
take it seriously either. 

While she mused, she was listening, and speak- 
ing. Seymour had gone, and Lady Wrensford- 
sley chattered complacently. Dusk had stolen 
in upon them, and Maurice noted the flicker of 
the firelight on the corner of a gilt picture-frame ; 
a heap of cumulus darkening in the sky; the vio- 
lets that the girl’s fingers were mechanically de- 
stroying. Trifles stamped themselves on his con- 


166 


THE WORLDLINGS 


sciousness, but the magnitude of her promise 
dwarfed his brain. While an intense joy per- 
vaded him, there was a sensation of unreality. 
She was such a long way off; no, not a long way 
off — only the length of the rug between them — 
but there was the impression of distance. He 
was to be her husband. Stupendous! His heart 
quaked at the sourd; something must happen to 
prevent it — the world would end first? He 
would have prostrated himself for her to tread 
on, and she was going to entrust him with her 
body and soul. It was to be his to guard her, to 
sympathise with her, to fathom all the caprices 
of her moods, and the failings of her temper — 
O God, give her failings that he might humour 
them! — to explore, dazzled by its radiance, the 
paradise of her personality. 

There was a misty moon when he took his way 
home. He had asked her to call him by his 
name, and she had stabbed him with the name of 
“Philip”; it had never struck him so painfully. 
The recollection came that never would he hear 
her call him by his own ; though she grew to love 
him even with the love that he prayed for, he 
would always be “Philip” to her ! His conscience, 
which had slumbered, stirred and woke under the 
sting of the thought. What had he done? How 
weak, how shamefully weak and guilty he had 


THE WORLDLINGS 


167 


been I After all his struggles, to have told her at 
last! He wrung his hands. Yet he knew in his 
soul that he wasn’t sorry. His, and his only, the 
suffering, now and always — and so what matter? 
He would accept suffering for Eternity to gain 
her and exult in Hell to know that she had been 
his wife! 

The Baronet’s delight made triumphal music 
in his ears awhile, and then he was again alone. 
Remorse was drowned in imagination. There 
was the night to remember in, and the morrow 
to foresee. 

He rose with the eagerness of a boy mad with 
his first love. He wanted to go to town, early, 
at once, and buy the ring. He reached Which- 
cote while The Morning Post was still warm from 
the kitchen-fire. Helen gave him her finger and 
a thread of silk — and the world swayed as he 
held them; but he could take no measurement. 
A little colour tinged her face at his enthusiasm. 
He tore off a scrap of the paper, and she poked 
her finger through that, as she might have poked 
it through his heart had she pleased; and he said: 
“What shall I bring you? Or shall we have a 
lot sent down for you to choose from? Which 
would you prefer?” 

“Which would you?’ she asked. 

“If you can tell me what you want, I’d like 


168 


THE WORLDLINGS 


to bring it to you,” he owned. “I want to rush 
off and get it, and rush back with it and make 
the incredible seem true. I suppose it’s ridicu- 
lous, but ” 

“It’s very charming of you,” she smiled. 
“Well, choose it for me yourself. I leave it to 
you.” 

Maurice stood looking at her in a moment’s 
silence. 

“Would it be ‘ridiculous,’ ” he said, “if I asked 
to be allowed to kiss you?” 

He thought she flinched a little. Then her face 
flushed again, and she inclined her cheek to him. 
He knew beyond the possibility of self-deception 
that he was nothing to her. 

“I’ll bring you the most beautiful ring I can 
see,” he said. 


CHAPTER XII 


Whether Sir Noel's illness had been caused 
by his despondency, or not, his convalescence had 
certainly proceeded with rapid strides since his 
satisfaction. There had been some talk of his 
passing the rest of the winter in a milder climate, 
but he was averse from even the shortest journey, 
and as the change was not essential, he had re- 
mained by the fireside at the Court. Here he 
beamed mildly in contemplating the realisation 
of his hope, and, when Maurice was present, sang 
a superfluous psean of Helen. Lady Wrens- 
fordsley and she called constantly to see him now, 
and the proudest hours that he had known were 
these in which the girl who was to be his daugh- 
ter-in-law flattered him with her attentions. 
Maurice was conscious that he never saw her to 
more advantage than by the old man’s side; the 
slightly contemptuous beauty of her face took a 
new character, and though he could not suppose 
that she entertained any affection for the Bar- 
onet, the gentleness of her solicitude for him was 
extremely graceful. 


169 


170 


THE WORLDLINGS 


To Rosa the news of the engagement had been 
no less catastrophic because she had dreaded it. 
It had reached her through the medium of a 
paragraph, for Maurice had shrunk from con- 
fessing he had fallen; and that she had been left 
to gather the information from a paper inten- 
sified her sense of injury. 

Absurd as it was, she had all the emotion of 
having suffered an indefensible wrong, and she 
beheld herself in the light of a benefactress who 
had been repudiated when her services were all 
conferred. Her mind harped resentfully on the 
fact that was incontrovertible — their compact had 
not been fulfilled; she was as far from society 
as before Maurice had entered it. Latterly she 
had forced herself to disguise impatience well, 
and the remembrance of her wasted sacrifice 
burned in her. When at last he came, it was only 
the fear of betraying her defeat that kept her 
tongue in check. 

“You’ve been in no hurry for my congratula- 
tions,” she said surlily. 

“To be candid, I was afraid of your re- 
proaches,” said Maurice. 

“My reproaches?” Her glance questioned 
him. “Oh, when a thing is done, all the re- 
proaches in the world won’t alter it!” 

She knew that the umbrage of her tone must 


THE WORLDLINGS 171 

be unaccountable to him, but to repress recrim- 
ination strained her enough. 

“When are you to be married?” she inquired 
after a pause. 

“In March. I want to talk to you about it.” 

“You’ve been in no hurry,” she said again; 
“I read the news a fortnight ago in Truth . I 
want to talk to you too; you mean to ask me 
to the wedding, of course?” 

Maurice paled, and looked at her blankly. 

“To — to ask you to the wedding?” he said. 
“It’s to be very quiet, on account of Sir Noel’s 
health ; we are to be married at Oakenhurst. I’m 
afraid I can’t do that.” 

“You see,” said Rosa, with a quiver in her 
voice, “I have waited a long time for you to keep 
your word. You had no opportunity, you told 
me; the wedding’ll be a splendid one.” 

The suggestion horrified him. There might be 
women in society no better; but Rosa Fleming, 
whom he had met as Jardine’s mistress! To in- 
troduce her to Helen, and see them clasp hands? 
No, by Heaven! he might be a rogue, but he 
wasn’t a cad. 

“You’re mistaken,” he said; “it isn’t an oppor- 
tunity; it’s not to be a big affair in town. If I 
wanted you invited, it would be extraordinary; 
people would wonder.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


m 

“I don’t know if it ever occurs to you,” she 
returned sharply, “but it’s a year since our agree- 
ment was made; and I think it’s about time I had 
my share. If the wedding is to be a small one, 
I’ll put up with it — that’s my business!” 

His brows knit in perplexity. Insistence 
would compel him to avow the real reason; and 
to hint to a woman that she was not a fit acquaint- 
ance for the girl who was to be his wife would 
be a loathsome task — especially for a man like 
himself. No matter how ingeniously he might 
put it, the moment would be damnable for them 
both. 

“If you’ll hear what I came to tell you ” 

he began ; but her self-control was fast deserting 
her. 

“I’d rather,” she exclaimed, “that you heard 
met I say a year has gone by and I’ve had noth- 
ing. I’m stowed away in a furnished flat. I 
don’t want a flat; I want my own house — and 
other people’s houses ; I want what I’m entitled 
to. When I complain, I get one excuse after 
another. I’m sick of them. Do what you agreed 
to do. Give me a chance. .You’ve had yours — 
I want mine!” 

“You can have a house whenever you like,” 
said Maurice. “Will you listen to me? My in- 
come is to be five thousand when I marry; that 


THE WORLDLINGS 


173 


means that yours will be twelve hundred and 
fifty. For Heaven’s sake be reasonable! I give 
you my word of honour — well, perhaps I haven’t 
got any honour — I swear to you that I’ve done all 
that was possible for you so far. Don’t, don’t 
accuse me now — I’m accusing myself enough for 
both of us! Remember that the last time I was 
here I was posing as a monument of strength — 
and a few weeks at Oakenhurst crumpled me up 
like straw. I deserve worse things than you can 
say, but let me down as lightly as you can. On 
my oath, if I haven’t done all you wanted, I’ve 
done my best ! On my oath, to ask you to Oaken- 
hurst would look very strange.” 

Her countenance had cleared. Since her im- 
mediate expectation of an income much larger 
had been banished by two telegrams apprising 
her of the Baronet’s improved condition, twelve 
hundred and fifty was a welcome surprise. It 
is difficult to maintain resentment in the face of 
good news; and when she answered, her tone 
was not ungracious. 

“Twelve hundred and fifty?” she said. “Well, 
I’m very glad to hear it; it will be very useful, 
I’m sure! All right; I don’t want to be unrea- 
sonable — I don’t want to put a pistol to your 
head — if you really can’t ask me to the wedding, 
we won’t say any more about it. Only I can’t 


174 


THE WORLDLINGS 


go on in this way, you know — an arrangement 
is an arrangement — and you must do something 
else for me soon. When can you?” 

“I’ll see,” he murmured; “I don’t forget you. 
Come, in the meantime things look better, don’t 
they? You can take a charming house some- 
where ; you might even keep a carriage, and en- 
gage a companion. Or you could travel; you 
might have a grand time on the Continent. I 
should think that travel would be a good deal 
more enjoyable than a house in London — and 
that way you would meet heaps of people. No- 
body is ever satisfied, of course, but upon my 
word you have a very agreeable life from an out- 
sider’s point of view! You’re free to go where 
you choose, you can buy almost anything you 
like, you have no responsibilities: it isn’t hard- 
ship, now, is it?” 

She accorded him a grudging smile, and when 
they parted, it was ostensibly as friends ; but the 
remembrance of the interview lurked in his mind 
disquietingly. Her grievance, indeed, worried 
him now more than it worried Rosa. The no- 
tion of travelling in good style on the Continent 
tickled her fancy — she had long been eager to see 
Monte Carlo; it would be agreeable to mingle 
with such a fashionable crowd as those whose 
departures for the Engadine had been chronicled 


THE WORLDLINGS 


17 ® 

earlier in the year; moreover, when his marriage 
had taken place, there would be his own draw- 
ing-room accessible. Her perception of the truth 
was dim as yet; she was not a sensitive woman, 
and she attributed his procrastination chiefly to 
moral cowardice. When he had his establish- 
ment in town and was the host at balls and din- 
ner-parties, it appeared to her that he could shirk 
his duty to her no longer. 

The thought of this impending situation was 
precisely what troubled Maurice. He realised 
that the difficulty had been only postponed and 
that sooner or later he would have to meet her 
demand with a definite refusal. He stood be- 
tween two fires, in the knowledge, and whether 
he turned to right or left, there would be a burn- 
ing sense of guilt. 

It was no easy matter for him to violate his 
undertaking; he had never broken his word to 
anybody, and he did not conceal from himself 
that Rosa’s indignation would be warranted. 
That a wiser woman would have been content 
in her position was beside the matter; he had 
entered into a contract with her and she was 
justified in requiring him to fulfil it. It seemed 
to the obligant that Fate forbade him to be hon- 
est to anyone as “Philip Jardine,” even to his 
accomplice. 


176 


THE WORLDLINGS 


That he might be staunch to her, at least, by 
offering an indignity to Helen he saw clearly 
enough, and he saw that Helen would be quite 
untarnished by his action; but he would violate 
a score of contracts first! Since baseness was 
inevitable, he must be base to Rosa. He was 
menaced by a quandary which could have been 
averted only by his withdrawing from the en- 
gagement; and even this course, which did not 
present itself to him, could not have been adopted 
without casting some slur on the girl he revered. 

He was fully aware that the predicament had 
had its origin in his own sin — the average fool 
could not have stated the fact more luminously, 
in pronouncing judgment on him; but this was 
as irrelevant to his conduct to-day as the climate 
of Callao. Indeed, a lifetime is a very delicate 
possession, and to all men there should be given 
a second, with remembrance of the first. Alas l 
instead of a second youth, which would be ex- 
quisite, we have only a second childhood, which 
is painful. For the role that he was playing 
Maurice had valuable qualifications, but he lacked 
the most important one — callousness. His cyni- 
cism was verbal, not ingrained; he had reviled the 
world while it turned its back upon him, but as 
soon as it opened its arms he forgave. The 
pricks and pangs that he had experienced were 


THE WORLDLINGS 


177 


due to his setting at defiance a temperament 
which he had partially misunderstood. Many 
men in his place, hundreds and thousands of men, 
would have been more tranquil: the thought of 
distant heirs, unknown in the connection, did not 
present itself to him, and he had given an old 
man considerable happiness. But for Maurice 
the role was a misfit. He had winced at the 
tokens of Sir Noel’s affection, because he had 
grown fond of him ; he had fallen in love — which 
the biggest scoundrel may do — but had had hours 
of torture because he was unworthy to acknowl- 
edge it ; he had resolved to treat his partner badly 
since there was no alternative, but tossed sleep- 
lessly because he foresaw himself forsworn. 

Lady Wrensfordsley had offered to bring two 
thousand a year into settlement, but he had de- 
clared that it was quite unnecessary. At least 
Helen should owe to her acceptance of him noth- 
ing that he did not provide. The wedding, as 
he had said, was to be in March, and as the time 
approached, the thought of it blotted all other 
considerations from his mind. The breath of fear 
which has sickened everybody during weeks of 
passionate foretaste made him yearn for the day’s 
birth with all his being. Many moments there 
were when, bewildered again by the whirlwind 
of his emotion, Maurice was literally unable to 


178 


THE WORLDLINGS 


realise that the effulgent future that he beheld 
could ever be ; it seemed even more incredible by 
reason of the self-suppression that he exercised, 
by contrast with her distance from him now. It 
wasn’t such an engagement as, when fancy had 
run riot, he had sometimes pictured — not such 
an engagement as precedes a love-match; he 
knew that, in his maddest minutes. He knew 
that he would marry a girl who was making an 
“alliance,” who was no fonder of him than she 
had been on the morning when he first kissed her 
cheek. She was still a goddess enthroned to him ; 
but the world had narrowed to her dominion, and 
his heart swelled with rapture. Never so ar- 
dently as he did now had he appreciated the pos- 
session of wealth. The pleasure of pouring pres- 
ents upon her was the rarest luxury he had 
known, and he joyed to take trouble in acquiring 
something — to do more than go into a jeweller’s, 
or a fan-maker’s, or a florist’s and select from the 
stock displayed. He would have bought Bond 
Street for her if he had been rich enough, but 
they were not always the most expensive gifts 
within his means that afforded him the greatest 
gratification. He had once devoted a day to the 
purchase of antique silver buttons, because Lady 
Wrensfordsley had casually observed in his hear- 
ing that “antique silver buttons would have 


THE WORLDLINGS 


179 


looked much better on it!” His ultimate discov- 
ery of a set which was both of the right number 
and the right size delighted him as a successful 
mission for the woman with whom he is in love 
ever delights a man. The considerate woman 
would provide him with many opportunities for 
such delight, because the period of her power to 
do so is generally brief. 

The stream of wedding-presents, from Sir 
Noel’s parure of diamonds to the jade paper- 
cutter of an acquaintance — still more, the deliv- 
ery of the bridesmaids’ bracelets — helped Maurice 
to feel that the date was actually drawing near. 
Helen had less leisure for reverie; in the interval 
between her ceasing to be her own, and realising 
that she was his, it seemed to her that she belonged 
to nobody but dressmakers, and tailors, and mil- 
liners. Not since she had been presented had the 
formulas of fashion fatigued her so much. Lady 
Wrensfordsley was tremulous with triumph and 
in a position to be prodigal, and she gave with 
both hands. Her rope of pearls was as perfect 
as the neck that it was meant for, and the girl’s 

frocks cost a fortune. Her wedding-gown • 

It was described at the time; in retrospection 
Maurice supposed that she wore white. 

He only knew that it was she — that the in- 
credible had happened — that he had a heart, 


180 


THE WORLDLINGS 


thumping, thumping in his breast. Subsidiary 
figures presumably performed their duty. She 
was given away — Almighty God! — to him . His 
soul rushed to her clasp. He knelt, praying in 
a prayer without words that God would be ten- 
der to her, that regret should never touch her life, 
“Pardon, O God! Pardon me, pardon me”; 
his spirit uttered it a hundred times. And next 
he prayed: “Damn me for ever, God, so that I 
live the lie out — so that my sin won’t harm her!” 

, . . The book was closed. People shook hands 
with him. The solemnity of the organ filled the 
church, the hour, and the Universe. They were 
husband and wife. Was it Oakenhurst, or 
’Heaven? He was alone with her, and could have 
sobbed thanksgiving. . . . They had reached the 
house. The wine buzzed on his palate tastelessly, 
and he heard the voices, and his own voice, from 
afar. The room seemed very full, but only 
Helen’s face was clear. The room seemed empty 
— Helen had disappeared. How long she was 
absent! — something must be wrong? His gaze 
devoured her when she entered: she had been 
crying; she was dressed to go away with him — 
to go away with him! the sight of her hat thrilled 
his blood. Now the wrench was over for her — 
they were on the steps at last; and the door of 
the carriage had been closed again. 


CHAPTER XIII 


They had arrived only a few hours since, and 
their relation to each other, even the aspect of 
the lamplit room, and the sound of the servants’ 
names were strange to them as yet. They had 
been dining, and were still at the table, dallying 
with dessert. A little silence had fallen between 
them, and the woman sat trying to feel at home. 

Stranger than he, and than all besides, was the 
sense of unfamiliarity with herself. She strug- 
gled with it constantly, but from this she could 
not escape; she was as foreign to herself in soli- 
tude as in his arms. It seemed to her that mar- 
riage meant the surrender of everything, even of 
one’s identity. 

“What are you thinking of, dearest?” said 
Maurice. 

“Was I thinking? I’m not sure that I was.” 
She rose with a suppressed sigh, and moved 
slowly to the window. “How divine 1” she mur- 
mured. 

“Shall we go out there?” he asked. “Shall 
we go and look at the sea? We have everything 
181 


182 


THE WORLDLINGS 


to explore, sweetheart; let’s begin by losing our- 
selves in the garden.” 

She smiled assent, and he held the window 
open for her. 

“But wait,” he said. “You had better have a 
wrap.” 

“The night is too warm,” she said, looking 
back over her shoulder; “no, come — I want to 
go now, as we are!” 

He obeyed her instantly, and they descended 
together. Indeed, the scented air was as gentle 
as a caress, and under her vivid moon the garden 
was a fairyland filled with a thousand delights 
and invitations. For some moments neither 
spoke ; they wandered along a winding walk from 
which they could see the silver quiver of the 
waves. Where the path ended, they discovered 
thatrthe owners of the villa had devised a seat, 
embowered in myrtles, and overhung by the pink 
blossom of an almond-tree. The view from it 
was sublime, and Maurice and she remained lost 
in comtemplation. Presently Helen, who was 
sitting, lifted her eyes to him, and with a quick 
gesture of authority, that he found enchanting, 
motioned him to the space beside her. 

“Doesn’t it make one grateful to have sight?” 
she said. 

“I’m wishing,” said he, “that you had never 


THE WORLDLINGS 


183 


seen it before. To me it’s so breathlessly new; I 
should like it to be new to you.” 

“It is new,” she said, “it’s always new. And 
this garden’s a dream! Look at the oranges — 
why are they so much daintier while they grow 
than when they’re picked? And how black that 
cypress! it makes the moonlight whiter.” 

“Over your head,” said Maurice, “is a branch 
of almond-blossom that makes your features 
fairer.” 

“It must be very becoming,” she replied, flash- 
ing fun at him ; “I saw it when I sat down.” 

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “how beautiful it is to 
hear you speak to me like that!” 

“So vainly?” 

“So frankly! I should like you to have a mil- 
lion vanities, that you might show me every one 
of them.” 

“If you aren’t more sensible your wish is likely 
to come true. Do men find women’s vanities so 
charming, then?” 

“What do I know,” he said, “of other men and 
women? There are only you and I in the world.” 

She laughed softly, not displeased. “Then are 
mine so charming? Why would Helen’s vanities 
charm Philip? Did you have the Child's Guide 
to Knowledge when you were a little boy?” 

“Yes, it was fat and short, I can remember it. 


184 THE WORLDLINGS 

Because they’d help me to understand that you 
are mortal.” 

“Ah,” she said, “I shall become more mortal to 
you every day, don’t fear!” 

“Is it a promise?” he asked. 

“It is a warning,” she said. 

For answer he clasped her hand, and retained 
it until the misgiving stirred her that their atti- 
tude resembled that of the couples that she had 
seen about the lanes of Oakenhurst. She re- 
leased herself to point far away across the sea. 

“Are those the lights of Nice?” she said. 

He understood her motive, and was annoyed 
with himself for having embarrassed her. She 
realised his feeling, and knew a pang of self- 
reproach that she was not in love with him. 

“When I was a boy,” said Maurice, breaking 
another silence, “you weren’t born. . . . How 
stupid that sounds, and it is hardly what I meant ! 
I mean that when you were a little child, I was 
a man — I was twenty when you were five. And 
yet it seems such a little while ago that I was 
twenty.” 

“I can remember myself at five,” said Helen; 
“I was a little dear. You’d have liked me.” 

“I’m jealous of your memories,” he said; “and 
I’m startled by my own experience. At twenty 
I had been through so much, and yon were run- 


THE WORLDLINGS 185 

ning about in a pinafore. It doesn’t seem right 
— or real.” 

She did not follow him here, for the wonder- 
ment was essentially a lover’s; it was a matter 
of sensation which figures were powerless to con- 
vey. Maurice instinctively felt this; and per- 
ceiving that in giving the thought utterance he 
had indulged his own mood rather than sought 
to enter into hers, he added quickly: 

“Helen, you and I must have a model honey-* 
moon. But I want to ask you an immense 
favour.” 

“I’ll grant it in advance,” she said. 

“No, no; that is just what you musn’t do; 
I want you to promise me on your honour not to 
be considerate. Be anything else you please — 
capricious, exacting, ill-humoured — but don’t be 
considerate. When I’m boring you, let me see it 
and help me to be tactful; when you want me 
to go away, say so; and I’ll worship out of sight. 
Treat me as a friend, and the most trying time 
of your life won’t be so hard for you. Ever since 
we started I’ve been haunted by the fear that 
you’d wish the honeymoon were over; be honest 
with me, and let me make it as little tedious to 
you as I can! That’ll be the greatest, the very 
highest manifestation of faith in my love for you 
that’s possible.” 


:86 


THE WORLDLINGS 


These words, the sincerity with which they were 
spoken, touched her, and she slid her hand into 
his again. 

“No, no,” he repeated, setting it loose, “let us 
keep the compact! You don’t want to be senti- 
mental; just now you’d rather forget that I am 
here.” 

“You refuse to take my hand?” she exclaimed, 
astonished. 

“Ah!” said Maurice, “it isn’t fair to put it like 
that. Say that I know such demonstrations 
rather jar upon you.” 

“But it’s my hand,” she murmured, half laugh- 
ing, half in earnest; “mine!” 

“You don’t really want me to hold it,” he said; 
“I know you don’t.” And recovering his ordi- 
nary tone, he spoke of other things. She an- 
swered in the same key, and was the brighter 
lest he should suspect that there was a grain of 
chagrin in her mind. What he had said was 
quite true; but that he had had the resolution to 
act upon the knowledge piqued her, even while 
it heightened her respect for him. 

Again there came a long pause, while she was 
acutely conscious of his proximity. She was 
moved by deeper thoughts than she had hitherto 
known. The responsibilities of life, which had 
long hovered at the portal, gathered on the 


THE WORLDLINGS 


18T 


threshold, and suddenly a man’s devotion pre- 
sented itself to her as a thing so strange that she 
trembled. 

“I wish I were worthier,” she said; “I have 
never understood.” 

Shame convulsed him, and for some seconds he 
couldn’t reply. 

“ ‘Worthier’!” he said at last hoarsely. “God, 
if you only knew!” 

She shook her head. “I know enough. I know 
what I am to you, I think, and it frightens me. 
Why am I all that, Philip? Shall I ever be able 
to ‘live up’ to the Illusion that you have put the 
ring on?” 

“Be yourself,” he said; “there is no more for 
you to do.” 

“I am full of faults,” she said painfully; “no, 
let me speak! I am just like any other girl. I 
have never had any high ideals — oh, believe me, 
because it’s true. I haven’t. I’ve lived for 
my frocks, and I’ve been flattered by admiration, 
and — and I shouldn’t have married you if you had 
been a poor man. Let me speak! You fell in 
love with my face — why should I pretend? I’ve 
been told that I had beauty all my life; I under- 
stood that I was a beauty when I was in the 
schoolroom ; I’ve heard the shape of my nose, and 
the length of my eyelashes talked of ever since 


v 


188 


THE WORLDLINGS 


I was a child. But under this face of mine, dear* 
I am so commonplace, so exactly the same as 
anybody else, and — and I’m afraid of being 
found out and disappointing you, and yet I want 
you to know it. Let me speak ! If you had mar- 
ried me as most men marry, I could have given 
you what you asked — I should have been all you 
wanted — and it would have been all right; but 
you have exalted me so! I saw it while we were 
engaged, and now I see it more plainly than I 
did. Oh, I am talking all round what I mean! 
I will say it: I am not capable of — of caring for 
anyone as you care for me — I am too trivial.” 

“You have never seemed to me so sweet, so 
fine, so adorable as you do now,” said Maurice. 
“Does that answer you?” 

Her voice had broken, and he had the impres- 
sion of a long interval before he heard it again. 
Their hands lay together once more, and he bent 
down to her inquiringly. 

“There are many marvels,” she said; “there 
are marvels wherever we turn: the stars, and 
the mountains, and the flowers, and the sea — 
but to-night the way a man thinks of the woman 
he loves seems to me the greatest.” Her fingers 
responded to him. “You hold it as if it were 
sacred,” she smiled — “and it has been manicured 


THE WORLDLINGS 


189 


since I was twelve! Until I was old enough to 
rebel I was put to bed in gloves.” 

“Even the gloves,” said Maurice, “they'd be 
sacred, too!” 

“O sea and stars,” she laughed, “humble your- 
selves, and hide!” She regarded him wonder- 
ingly. “What have I ever said to you? Look 
back to the beginning — to the day you first met 
me ! Philip, a schoolgirl could have said as much. 
My face, only my face! you have never seen my 
mind at all. Why have you loved me?” 

“Can you question my love for you? — nothing 
else matters.” 

“No,” she said; “I think that — it would be 
very foolish of you — that you would give your 
life for me.” 

His gaze thanked her. “What I am going to 
say sounds mad. But in distant eons, while we 
were engaged ” 

“What are eons?” she said; “I’ve only seen 
them in print.” 

“They were my period in purgatory before an 
oversight let me into heaven. I say that while 
we were engaged I used to wish, among many 
wishes — and among many prayers — that these 
were the days when heroes were made by physical 
strength and that I could go to attempt some- 
thing Herculean for you and bring back a trophy. 


190 


THE WORLDLINGS 


Why don’t you command me to get you some- 
thing, Helen — what shall I bring?” 

She pointed out into the garden, where the 
mimosa hung motionless in the mellow night: 
“ 'Father,’ said Beauty, ‘bring me a rose!’ ” 
Then the man plucked roses, and brought them 
to the woman’s lap, and fastened the fairest in 
her breast. 


CHAPTER XIV 


And long afterwards, when she slept, his 
mind reiterated words that she had spoken, and 
her wish that she were worthier of his love wrung 
him again. For himself there was no sleep ; his 
eyes ached for lack of it and their lids were heavy ; 
but conscience had never been more wakeful, and 
his brain worked with the persistence of the watch 
that ticked beside the bed. Once he bit his lips 
to stifle a groan that had escaped him, but the 
sound had reached her dream, and for an instant 
he feared that he had roused her. The light of 
early morning was entering the room ; and, hold- 
ing his breath, he gazed at her haggardly until 
her face turned upon the pillow and was hidden 
from him by her hair. 

The day was bright before he lost conscious- 
ness, but on the breakfast table were more blos- 
soms beside her plate, and a parcel of new books 
that, all unknown to her, he had brought for her 
enlivenment. The idea of surprising her with 
these had occurred to him early in the engage- 
ment, and the binding of each of them was a work 
191 


193 


THE WORLDLINGS 


of art; ephemeral fiction had seldom worn so deli- 
cate a dress. 

In the morning the sea was brilliant, and the 
myrtles made the seat a haven of shade. Await- 
ing their moods of energy were the nearer of the 
hill villages, and the still nearer charms of the 
olive woods. The immediate neighbourhood, too, 
within driving distance of Monte Carlo, but not 
numbered among the resorts of the fashionable 
world, was quite unfamiliar to her, and each 
saunter that she took with him beyond the gar- 
den discovered a fresh and quaint attraction. The 
novelty of the scenes to the man, still more his 
keenness of observation, enhanced their interest 
to his companion, and when they had been in- 
stalled in the villa a week, she was startled to 
reflect how quickly seven days had sped. 

As for Maurice, he would have asked nothing 
better than to be allowed to pass the rest of his 
life with her here. Before long the thought of 
their return to London presented itself to him 
almost as the end of Eden, and the pathos of 
leave-taking was foreshadowed by every sunset. 
Something like dread oppressed him when, in 
projecting the repetition of a ramble that had 
delighted them, they began to say: “Let us go 
again to-morrow, for we mayn’t have another 
chancel” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


193 


They were to make their home in the house in 
Prince’s Gardens ; and when the honeymoon had 
waned and the roar of London met their ears, 
and the rain of London splashed before their 
eyes, the season had opened. To Helen their re- 
turn was far more agreeable than to him. The 
arrangement of the rooms, her invitations, and 
the sense of her new power all amused her. There 
were her mother and her friends to welcome, a 
hundred things to do ; she felt very young during 
her first month in town. Maurice knew no eager- 
ness to welcome anybody; and excepting Lady 
Wrensfordsley and Sir Noel, who paid his 
earliest visit to the house as a guest, their visitors 
bored him considerably. 

A letter from Rosa might be looked for by 
any post, and Maurice quailed in anticipation of 
meeting her again. The thought of her had been 
odious to him latterly; and partly because of his 
new aversion, partly in fear that their next inter- 
view would confront him with the most horrible 
task in his experience, he had from day to day 
postponed the requisite call upon her. He did 
not fail to tell himself that this aversion was un- 
grateful and unjust; but it had been forming 
in his mind gradually, and almost unperceived, 
since their last conversation, and now he hated to 


194. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


reflect that there was a person who knew that 
Helen bore a name to which she had no right. v 

When the note arrived, Rosa’s delay in sum- 
moning him was explained by the fact that she, 
too, had been to the Riviera. She had, indeed, 
nursed some hope that a happy encounter would 
have affected her introduction to Helen already, 
but the disappointment had damped her very 
slightly. Before her departure she had engaged 
a French maid, who spoke a little English, and, 
for once, she had enjoyed herself. She had lin- 
gered in Paris before the crossing, and, but for 
her visions of flunkeys displaying paradise, she 
would have remained there longer still. 

Maurice was received with an amiability which 
was almost, if not entirely, genuine. She in- 
formed him that she had made several acquaint- 
ances during her absence, and had won twenty 
pounds at the tables ; she had a system — she had 
found it out herself. It was so simple that she 
was surprised it hadn’t been discovered before! 
In Paris she had bought hats, and a lot of gloves 
scented with violets — the perfume was everlast- 
ing; somebody had told her that they could not 
be got anywhere else. London was abominable! 
She shrugged her shoulders at it with a grimace, 
and looked much as if she would like to say, “Mon 
Dieu!” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


195 


“And you?” she inquired in a tone perhaps a 
shade less genial. “I suppose you’re very happy, 
so far, eh?” 

“I married an angel,” said Maurice, for an- 
swer. 

“Really? Well, when am I going to see her? 
Have you mentioned me to her, I wonder?” 

“No,” he murmured, “I haven’t.” 

Her eyebrows rose. “Well, make haste,” she 
said. “Everything comes to one who waits — 
even your marriage! You don’t need me to tell 
you that it’s quite easy now for you to make 
things solid at once? All you have to do is to 
get your wife to ask me to your own house ; the 
rest’ll follow, if she asks me often enough.” 

“Look here,” said Maurice. “I — I want to 
talk to you about this — I’ve been thinking about 
it. You see the difficulty?” 

“The difficulty!” she echoed, staring at him. 
“What difficulty? I know you can pile up diffi- 
culties as well as any man I’ve met, but if you’ve 
found another now, you take the cake!” 

“Listen to me patiently,” he begged. “Put 
yourself in my place, and try to understand what 
I feel. My wife is more to me than I can faintly 
suggest — I reverence her; my love for her is a 
religion. You know what we said when I told 
you that I cared for her; we said that, thinking 


196 


THE WORLDLINGS 


about her in the way I did, I should shudder at 
myself each time I kissed her. Well, I have mo- 
ments, and many hours, worse than we foresaw 
— or I think they’re worse — awful hours! But 
sometimes I forget — ‘forget’ isn’t the right word, 
but you know what I mean — sometimes the joy 
is fiercer than the shame, and I’m happy as a 
drunkard is happy while his bout lasts. If you 
were her friend, even her acquaintance, if you 
came to the house, if I heard her speak of you — 
well! you must understand that I could never 
forget for a single instant — my imposture would 
be flaring before me every minute of my life — I 
couldn’t bear it.” She made a movement as if to 
interrupt him. “I want to implore you to waive 
your rights; I want you to leave me what I’ve 
got!” 

She was breathing hard, and now that she had 
the opportunity, she found it difficult to reduce 
her sudden rage to phrases. Maurice was in- 
tensely relieved that he had bethought himself of 
a way to avoid humiliating her; half the truth 
had served, though the suppression of his other 
reason deprived him of all defence. He sat wait- 
ing for the storm to burst. 

“So,” she gasped, “you’re a liar, eh? You have 
been lying to me all the time? You meant to 
break your word to me from the beginning?” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


197 


‘‘That isn’t so,” he said. “When I passed my 
word I meant to keep it. I didn’t understand. 
... I didn’t realise what the life would be.” 

“You meant to keep it? When — how long 
ago? You’ve fooled me twenty times over. You 
cheat, to double on me f* 

He had whitened painfully, but his tone did 
not lose its note of appeal: “I explained to you 
why I could do nothing while I was a stranger 
in society myself. If I could have helped you 
then, I would have done it.” 

“You can help me now!” 

“Afterwards it became more difficult still.” 

“When you fell in love!” she said with a harsh 
laugh. 

“I have done the most for you that I could 
do — that any decent man could have done. I 
swear it!” 

“ ‘Decent’!” 

“You can say what you like to me. Of course, 
I’m quite at your mercy.” 

“I don’t want to hear any of your heroics. 
‘Yes,’ or ‘no,’ that’s all that’s necessary. Are 
you going to keep your promise, or aren’t you?” 

“I can’t,” said Maurice. 

“You refuse?” 

“I entreat you to let me off.” 


198 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“Oh!” she exclaimed; “I want plain English. 
Do you refuse?” 

“If you force me to it,” he said, “I must/’ 

She stood looking at him speechlessly. Then 
she began to beat her hands together, and her 
voice came in jerks. 

“I wish that I had left you the beggar I found 
you,” she said; “I do! I’d rather have starved, 
myself, than given a fortune to you . You black- 
guard, you cowardly blackguard, to turn your 
back on me after I’ve ‘made’ you!” 

“I shall never turn my back on you. You 
know it!” 

“I don’t want to talk to you! Go! I hope 
I shan’t see you again. Your conscience, eh? I 
should trouble your conscience if I came? It’s 
a fine ‘conscience,’ on my soul ! It doesn’t trouble 
you to know that you’ve behaved like a scoundrel 
to me. You’ve got everything, haven’t you! and 
so you can snap your fingers at me. I suppose 
you think I ought to be grateful that you give 
me what you do? When are you going to cheat 
me over that as well — perhaps your miraculous 
wife will cost more than you think and you won’t 
be able to ‘afford’ so much? Treasures like her 
must be expensive. But take care! I warn you, 
you aren’t dealing with a child. If I have a 
penny less than my share now, or a penny less 


THE WORLDLINGS 


199 


than five thousand a year when the old man dies, 
it shall be the dearest money that you ever stole !” 

“You needn’t fear that I shall try to rob you,” 
he said quietly. 

“You have robbed me,” she cried; “you’ve 
robbed me of my chance! What are you wait- 
ing for? I told you to go.” 

He wiped his face dry with his handkerchief, 
and got up. 

“Good-bye,” he said: “I deserve all you say 
— there’s no answer I can make. I shall always 
send you the cheques honestly; if you ever want 
to see me, I’ll come.” 

She did not reply, nor did she turn her head 
as he crossed the room. She heard him fumbling 
with the door-knob, and then the sound that told 
her she was alone. An hysterical impulse seized 
her to shriek after him down the staircase, and 
she set her teeth hard in her handkerchief until 
his footsteps had died away. In the heat of her 
passion, what she had said was still true : she felt 
that she would rather have submitted to priva- 
tion than have shown Maurice the way to wealth. 
The thought of his wife seethed in her; his mar- 
riage had ruined every hope that she had formed ! 
He had had the intention of playing her false 
from the time he fell in love with the girl! she 
was convinced of it. From the time he fell in 


200 


THE WORLDLINGS 


love his standpoint had changed — he had wanted 
to shake himself clear of the past, to deceive him- 
self into believing in his own respectability! 

It was not until the evening that she was able 
to approach the subject of her future movements; 
and then the idea that Maurice would rejoice if 
she died relieved her slightly, by reason of her 
exuberant health. Of course he must be praying 
that something might happen to her — the secret, 
and the money would be entirely his own then! 
She had not thought of that before. She trusted 
that she would live to be ninety if only to spite 
him. The five thousand a year must come to her 
very soon, and, bitter though her disappointment 
was, she would, at least, be in possession of a 
dazzling income! 

The question was, what should she do with 
herself now? The term for which she had ob- 
tained the flat had almost expired, and she had 
meant to take another somewhere else and to ask 
him for the loan of a few hundred pounds in order 
to furnish it. It was a pity that she had not 
asked him by letter a week or two ago ; he would 
probably have been very glad of a chance to 
propitiate her! In the circumstances she did not 
think she would take a flat at all; there was no 
reason for her to remain in London. She could 
always apprise him of her address when the 


THE WORLDLINGS 


201 


cheque was due; and with Emilie to get the tick- 
ets, and direct the cabmen, and to sit respectfully 
next her on occasion, it would be infinitely livelier 
on the Continent. 

But to concentrate her mind on such matters 
was beyond her so early, and anger recurred and 
mastered her again and again. The thought of 
the interview kept her awake, as it was keeping 
Maurice awake, and she lay cursing him, and the 
wife who was beside him, and all that was his. 


CHAPTER XY 


Sometimes Maurice looked at his wife across 
a ballroom and found it almost as difficult to 
realise their relation to each other as he had done 
when they left the church together on their wed- 
ding-day. That after four months of matrimony 
there could still be moments when his possession 
of her seemed incredible to him was a very ex- 
traordinary thing; and if his love had been a 
shade less strong, it would have been an entirely 
desirable thing. The fact was due to various 
circumstances ; she was one of the most beautiful 
women in England; he had never time to grow 
accustomed to any one of the frocks she wore; 
and money permitted them the elegancies and 
refinements of life which are as necessary to sus- 
tain sexual illusion as is a hot-house to preserve 
an exotic. There was another reason ; the vague 
promise, that during the honeymoon he had more 
than once detected in her eyes and caught in her 
voice, had remained unfulfilled; their return to 
society had been made too soon and her emotions 
were still nascent. She liked him; she liked him 
much better than she had thought she would like 


THE WORLDLINGS 


203 


him ; but between the woman and her potentiali- 
ties, the influence of the world had been inter- 
posed — her own “world,” the little frivolous sec- 
tion that she had been taught to regard as all. 

One day he told her so. She had not long come 
in from her drive, and they were having tea in the 
boudoir. Maurice never entered it unless he was 
invited, and this afternoon she had suggested his 
joining her there. By a mere impulse, which she 
regretted the moment it was obeyed, she asked 
him if he was content. 

“Content?” he said. “I suppose a man who 
idolises a woman as I idolise you can hardly ex- 
pect contentment. I’m intensely grateful, at all 
events.” He saw that she was annoyed, and he 
looked at her penitently. “I’ve vexed you?” 

“Oh, not at all. It’s very flattering to hear 
that I’m still adored so much.” 

“I’ve vexed you,” he repeated. “Put out your 
hand and say you forgive me.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Philip; what have I to 
forgive? . . . Agatha Savile is going to be mar- 
ried ; did I tell you? She’s going to marry Percy 
Bligh.” 

“Is she?” said Maurice; “what a fool he must 
be!” 

“I don’t know; Agatha is considered very at- 
tractive. You used to find her attractive your- 


go 4 


THE WORLDLINGS 


self, didn’t you? I remember, when we saw you 
in Chapel Street, we thought it was going to be 
an engagement.” 

“Between her and me? I was in love with you 
then.” 

“It was the first time I had seen you, the aft- 
ernoon I mean,” she said indifferently. 

“I know it was ; all the same I was in love with 
you then. I didn’t understand it, but I was. I 
thought of you all the evening and wished I 
hadn’t been so stupid. You began to talk about 
buns, and I couldn’t find anything to say.” 

“I talked about buns? Beally? How bril- 
liant of me; no wonder I made an impression!” 

“And after I had gone, you thought I was go- 
ing to marry Agatha Savile! Good heavens! 
But I wish I had known it — I didn’t suppose you 
were thinking about me at all.” 

“Well, we thought that Agatha thought so. 
And I daresay she would have made you happy. 
Perhaps it’s a pity you didn’t. . . . What a clat- 
ter there is from that mews — these houses are ab- 
surdly arranged!” 

“A pity for which of us, you or me?” 

“Oh, for you, of course. I'm content enough,” 
she answered with the slightest shrug. 

Maurice left his chair, and seated himself on 
the couch by her side. She did not turn to him, 


THE WORLDLINGS 


205 


and there was a pause in which his view of her 
profile was not encouraging. 

“I’m going to explain myself,” he said; “I’m 
not going to leave you the right to speak to me 
in that tone. You shall know just what I meant 
— how much, and how little. I wish you’d look at 
me ; I can only see the tip of your nose, and your 
eyelashes!” 

She looked towards him reluctantly, like a child 
who is dreading a rebuke. 

*Well?” she murmured, folding her hands. 
“Does that suit you better? I know all you’re 
going to say — that I’m cold and horrid, and don’t 
deserve anything at all.” 

“Helen,” he said, “when I asked you to be my 
wife I knew you didn’t care for me as I cared 
for you — I knew it; but I hoped that the force 
of my love would rouse yours. I thought I could 
make you love me, because by everything I did, 
by every word I spoke to you, in our life together, 
you would understand that I worshipped you.” 

She nodded. The tip of her nose and the curve 
of her cheek were again all that he could see. 
There was a bowl of heliotrope against the couch 
- — there always was — and its scent seemed to 
grow stronger and confuse him. 

“While we were away I believed that my hope 
was going to be fulfilled. There isn’t a shade of 


206 


THE WORLDLINGS 


reproach in my mind; you are — you are charm- 
ing; but before we came back to town you were 
sometimes more than ‘charming.’ I think if I 
could have kept you all to myself my dream might 
have come partly true — I think you might have 
grown fonder of me .... That’s all. You 
know I’d rather be tolerated by you than loved 
by any other woman.” 

Her fingers were playing an imaginary stac- 
cato passage on her lap, and after a moment she 
said, in a voice that trembled between contrition 
and defiance: 

“I have done my best; it’s not my fault; I 
can’t help it if I’m not nice.” 

“You say it as if I had blamed you,” said 
Maurice. “I know it’s not your fault; it’s the 
fault of the life we lead — it doesn’t give me a 
chance. What do I see of you? You are out 
alone, or we are out together, or there are people 
here — you belong to society more than to me; 
we live in a crowd. At four o’clock in the morn- 
ing, when you are tired, it is my privilege to bring 
you home.” 

“One has to do things,” she faltered: “you don’t 
want me to neglect our duties? Besides, soon I 
—I shan’t be able to go out so much. Don’t be 
cross with me yet, Philip. If you knew how 
frightened I am!” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


207 


Maurice caught her to him, and they sat silent, 
both thinking, while he stroked her hair. He 
had hoped that they would be spared a child. 
Since he had known that he was expected to re- 
joice, he had hoped that at least they might not 
have a son ; and suddenly his heart tightened with 
the fear that the undesired life might rob him of 
the woman’s. Till now he had not thought of 
that. He was ashamed that he had had the cruel- 
ty to own she was not perfect ; she might die ! Her 
breath was on his neck — and when the spring 
came she might be breathless and stone cold ; per- 
haps a boy would have entered the world, to bear 
a title to which he had no right, and Helen would 
be in her grave ! If, during the few minutes that 
Maurice sat there holding her in his arms, a 
prayer could have undone their marriage, he 
would have kissed her for the last time and ut- 
tered it. 

He never remonstrated with her again about 
her amusements. The fear of losing her couldn’t 
be banished, and there was often something ter- 
rible to him in the sound of her laughter, in her 
loveliness itself. Let her lead the life that pleased 
her best! He attempted to view the situation 
from her own standpoint, and he felt that he had 
been selfish and exigent from the first; she had 
never affected to be fond of him — his continual 


208 


THE WORLDLINGS 


appeals to a tenderness that she couldn't force 
must have wearied her beyond endurance. 

It was at this period that remorse began to 
wrench the man body and soul. He was no long- 
er gripped by it in hours; it racked him without 
cessation. If she died? No one would know — 
people would condole with him — in the eyes of 
her mother, of everybody, he would be a bereaved 
husband — but in his own sight he would have 
murdered her. As surely as he had been a villain 
to make her his wife, he would be her murderer 
if she died. Why hadn’t he conquered the temp- j 
tation, why hadn’t he himself died before he fell 
to it! 

His guilt haunted him. It was with him as 
he watched her smiles where the newest band 
was playing the latest valse; it menaced him at 
At Homes while a comedian was being humorous 
at the piano; he saw it in the dusk of the skirt- 
filled brougham, heavy with flowers’ scent, as 
they were borne through the empty streets from 
one hot drawing-room to another. And if she 
lived, what would he have gained then by such a 
marriage? At any moment now he would have 
undone it, had the past been recoverable. To 
him it had given minutes of delirium, and her it 
had profaned and bored. He knew that if he had 
always loved her as he did to-day, he wouldn’t 


THE WORLDLINGS 


209 


have taken her as she had come to him; it was 
horrible to love her so and to feel that she only 
yielded to him by constraint. There was never 
a dawn when her lips bade him “Good-night” and 
he lay staring into the dim luxury of the room, 
that he would not have thanked God to know 
that he would wake alone in the room with the 
mud floor at Du Toit’s Pan — wake to see the 
sunlight on the morning after Rosa Fleming’s 
proposal to him and to find that all the rest had 
been a dream. 


CHAPTER XVI 


He had heard from Rosa once since their rup- 
ture — she had written a few curt lines from P aris 
on the subject of her forthcoming “dividend,” as 
she called it. In August he received an intima- 
tion concerning the payment, due on the first of 
September, and by the second note he learned 
that she was in Aix-les-Bains. 

In October he and Helen went to spend a few 
weeks at Whichcote, and to Helen, seven months 
married, life in her former home was very sug- 
gestive. She wanted to tell him what she felt, 
but her impressions eluded her as soon as her 
tongue tried to touch them. Her words implied 
that she had found the past much sweeter than 
the present, and this wasn’t what she meant. She 
knew so well what she meant that she demanded 
divination, and was aggrieved. 

Of Seymour she had neither seen nor thought 
much since her marriage, but now, in this house, 
the recollection of the feeling she had had for 
him was a frequent vexation to her. Reviewing 
the young man who had dined once or twice at 
Prince’s Gardens, he seemed a different person 


THE WORLDLINGS 


211 


from the cousin with whom Whichcote was asso- 
ciated in her mind. It astonished her to realise 
how stupid she had been about him; it astonished 
her still more to realise how recently she had been 
stupid. 

To Maurice, Oakenhurst was merely painful 
— additionally painful because the Baronet’s eag- 
erness for a grandson necessitated his affecting 
to share the hope. To the woman, there was a 
magic in every familiar sound and scent. 

One morning, before the sun had risen, the 
trilling of a bird roused her, and though she could 
not guess what bird it was, its notes requickened 
all the sentiment of her childhood; in sensation 
she was a child once more. And then gradually, 
while the bird called, her bosom swelled with an 
infinite yearning, or with ecstasy — the moments 
were ineffable — and her eyes filled with tears. 
She caught the notes again some hours later, and 
longed for the emotion that uplifted her when 
all save herself and the bird had slept; but she 
strove vainly to recover it, and, in the hum of 
noon, could not even remember of what it was 
that she had been made to think. On the mor- 
row, too, she woke to the enchantment, and hence- 
forth woke to wait for it. A shyness that she 
could not account for compelled her to keep the 
strange joy a secret. But she never failed to 


212 THE WORLDLINGS 

listen for the high, clear call to thrill the silence 
above the sleeping lawn; and the bird and the 
soul of the woman sang together every day. 

Lady Wrensfordsley said to Maurice: “Philip, 
you look worse and worse ; I wish you’d go up to 
town and see a doctor.” 

“It’s nothing,” he answered; “I’m anxious 
about her, that’s all.” 

“But you’re absurd,” she said; “I never heard 
anything so foolish. You’ll worry yourself into 
a serious illness if you aren’t careful ; and you’ll 
alarm her besides.” 

He took the hint, and Helen never suspected 
that he feared for her life, nor that he dreaded the 
thing for which he was supposed to hope. In her 
own breast there was no longer fear. Solitude 
charmed her, and she had moods in which she 
loved to escape to the room that had been her 
nursery, and to sit at the window with a book, 
which she never read, gazing between the bars. 
In imagination she was a mother already, and her 
lips formed kisses, and her arms were filled. A 
son? Yes, for Philip’s sake, she would like a 
son! But for her own she cared little; it was 
enough that it would be her child — a girl would 
be as wondrous as a boy. She would have loathed 
herself in remembering that she had once trem- 
bled with aversion, but that it seemed to her that 


THE WORLDLINGS 


213 


Hie frivolous girl who had trembled had been 
somebody else. 

As the year drew near its close, a richer happi- 
ness than she had ever known pervaded her, and 
her mind turned to Maurice with a strange per- 
sistence. She liked him to caress her ; she noticed 
that he caressed her less often than he had done ; 
one day she cried a little at the thought that she 
had, perhaps, estranged him by her tepidity. But 
his manner towards her was so tender that she 
dismissed the idea as morbid, although she re- 
mained conscious of a subtle difference in him. 

She felt that he had always been more to her 
than she had expressed. In intercourse with the 
Ego there are few revelations; the sincere diarist 
does not write, “This afternoon my feelings be- 
gan to change”: she felt that he had always been 
more to her than she had expressed. A shallow 
confidant would have told her that this was the 
beginning of love, but it would have been untrue ; 
it was the beginning of self-knowledge. 

When the new year was three months old, the 
man’s fear for her had culminated in an agony 
of needless terror, and he was congratulated on 
the birth of a son. Every cry that had reached 
him had torn his heart; he had prayed that he 
might writhe in hell if his torments would spare 
her a pang. He fell on his knees — scarcely 


214 


THE WORLDLINGS 


knowing that he did so — and thanked God that 
she was safe; he supplicated that his sin should 
never be visited upon his child. Now on the pres- 
ervation of his secret depended the peace of the 
wife whom he had bought, and the future of the 
boy who might grow to love him. He crept up 
the staircase guiltily to look at them. Like the 
eyes of all infants, the baby’s were old with wis- 
dom, and Maurice could imagine that there was 
comprehension in their gaze. 

Again and again he repented the steps that had 
led from the overseer’s billet to Prince’s Gardens. 
Alone in the room that was called the smoking- 
room, at the end of the hall, he sat and thought. 
He had won all that he had wished for — the 
wealth and the woman — and he was more wretch- 
ed than when he had lacked a dinner. He won- 
dered whether he would have repented if he had 
avoided marriage; he had been content enough 
in the early days in Bury Street. Would it have 
lasted, that sensual satisfaction, or would con- 
science have cursed him anyhow in time? He 
could not say, but he knew that, as it was, his 
Nemesis had arisen from his love. From the 
moment that the woman quickened his higher 
self, his punishment had begun. The growth of 
shame, the yearning to undo, the hopelessness in 


THE WORLDLINGS 


215 

which he had held her body and hungered for her 
soul — always through her, his sufferings! 

The consciousness might have turned a feebler 
love to hatred; it heightened Maurice’s devotion 
to her. A feebler love might have reflected that 
a woman who married for convenience was less 
pure than a man who was mastered by passion ; 
Maurice had not married from passion, but he 
felt that their union would have degraded him, 
even had he been worthy of her, and he would 
see no speck on his wife; she belonged to a world 
in which marriages of convenience were usual. 
In his darkness there was only one pale gleam of 
comfort — he had ceased to importune her for af- 
fection and she would have the tranquility that 
she was entitled to expect. It’s not my fault — - 
I can’t help it!” she had said, and he had never 
forgotten the words; they sounded more piteous 
to him each time that he recalled them. No, she 
couldn’t help it. He had been an ingrate to 
complain of what he had been so eager to acquire ! 

Upstairs she lay thinking of her baby and him. 
The love of a parent for a new-born infant is 
egotism, but it is egotism sublimed. To Helen’s 
outlook the little living bundle was transfiguring : 
life took a new aspect, as a landscape changes at 
sunrise, and the light of the child shone on every 
hour that she foresaw. 


216 


THE WORLDLINGS 


That strange things appeared so natural was 
the strangest feature of this time. She listened 
for Maurice’s hand on the door-knob, and knew 
no astonishment at her wistfulness ; she smiled to 
hear him enter the room — the door was hidden 
from her where she lay — without reflecting that 
the pleasure was a novel one; before he was ad- 
mitted in the morning she parted with the mirror 
slowly, and it surprised the nurses much more 
than her that she was never so fastidious as when 
the expected visitor was her husband. 

The fulfilment of his desire elated Sir Noel 
mightily. And seventy-eight though he was, he 
travelled to town to shake silver bells at his 
“grandson.” Three weeks afterwards Helen laid 
them in a drawer. The old man lived on, but the 
baby died. 

She had barely regained her strength when the 
blow fell, and she reeled under it. For the first 
time she perceived the feebleness of her faith and 
wished that it were stronger ; for the first time she 
cried bitterly for an answer to one of the enigmas 
which she had unthinkingly accepted. The 
thoughtlessness of the favoured, and the resigna- 
tion of the devout might be mistaken for each 
other but for the environment that reveals the 
difference. It had seemed to her a regrettable 
necessity that people should die, but things had 


THE WORLDLINGS 


21 ? 

been ordered so. People died, and some were 
born to wealth, and others to want; it was the 
way of the world — God’s way, one heard on Sun- 
day, if the weather was fine ; the poignancy of it 
had never touched her hitherto. Now, at the spur 
of personal pain, her mind leapt the barrier that 
had hedged her sympathies ; now she saw that her 
religion of an ivory prayer-book and a church 
parade was a meaningless thing. 

Her own child! Why had he been bom if he 
was to be snatched from her as soon as her arms 
had held him? 

It was also the first time that she had instinct- 
ively turned to Maurice to share her emotions; 
and by the irony of circumstance, she turned to 
him at a crisis when he was least able to fulfil her 
demands. He had been grieved by their loss, 
more grieved than he would have believed pos- 
sible a month earlier — nature was stronger than 
reason — but between the standpoints of the moth- 
er who had longed and the father who had shud- 
dered, the disparity was very great. He did his 
best to soothe her; like Lady Wrensfordsley, he 
found phrases of consolation; his pity was ap- 
parent. But her senses had never been more 
acute — and he did not once say “We have still 
each other.” 

She had clung to him sobbing violently; she 


THE WORLDLINGS 


£18 

withdrew from his embrace telling him that she 
was calmer. She was, in truth, calmer, for the 
vehemence of her despair had worn her out, but 
she felt more hopeless than before her outburst 
— more blankly alone. 

She did not turn to him for support again. He 
saw how she continued to suffer, and their divi- 
sion looked wider to him still ; he felt that it was 
only on impulse she even sought comfort at his 
hands. The woman who had sought a thousand 
assurances of love, suffered doubly to think she 
was no longer so dear to him. 

She could not blame him for it, she could blame 
him for nothing — his consideration was undimin- 
ished; he remained ready to gratify any whim. 
But it was not his indulgence that she desired 
now, it was his love. She loved him, and she 
knew it. Many times he found her crying and 
believed her in thought by the grave, when her 
mind was filled by him ; many times she petulant- 
ly refused a suggestion for her welfare when she 
would have welcomed an appeal to her unselfish- 
ness. 

It was new to her, wonderfully new, the con- 
sciousness of a man’s mastery. To feel that if 
her husband had cared for her as he used to care, 
there could be no deeper happiness on earth than 
such subjection, was so strange that she did not 


THE .WORLDLINGS 


219 


recognise herself. She had contemplated love, 
as she had contemplated misery, from the shelter 
of a pleasance; so faintly had the forces of life 
touched her, that she had been deceived by her 
fancy for her cousin. To-day the fruit of knowl- 
edge had been bitten to the core; she knew its 
good and its evil. To-day she was a woman alive 
to her own soul. 


CHAPTER XVTI 


The London season meant little more to her 
that year than it means to the majority in Lon- 
don. Like them, she read in the papers of others’ 
entertainments. Many considered that she car- 
ried her mourning for an infant too far, and re- 
monstrated with her. Agatha — now Mrs. Bligh 
— remonstrated with all the freedom of a bosom 
friend who had hoped to be Lady Jardine. She 
said: “Do you think it right , dear, to go to such 
a length? How dull it must be for your poor 
husband!” 

Of a truth, after they returned from a sojourn 
on the south coast, Maurice had begged his wife 
to seek distraction, though not for his own sake. 
She had replied listlessly that town was hateful 
to her and that she looked forward to escaping 
from it again. Would she care to go at once? 
he asked ; but she shook her head — she would wait 
until September, when they were going to Pang- 
bourne. Her lethargy seemed unconquerable, 
and by Lady Wrensfordsley’s advice, he induced 
her to ask a few persons to stay with them there. 

He was surprised one afternoon in Pall Mall 
220 


THE WORLDLINGS 


221 

to see Rosa in a hansom; he had not known that 
she was back in England. It surprised him more 
that she bowed, and signed to the driver to stop. 

“Aren’t you going to shake hands with me?” 
she said, leaning forward. 

“Oh, why, yes; of course! How d’ye do?” 
The sudden meeting embarrassed him. 

“I was sorry to see you’d lost your baby,” she 
added, while he still sought for civilities. 

“Yes,” he said. . . . “I had no idea you were 
in London again.” 

“I came back in June, just after you sent the 
last money. I’m at the Langham. How are 
you? — you don’t look very fit.” 

“Oh, I’m all right, thanks. You — you look 
better than ever.” 

She smiled radiantly. 

“Yes, I feel very good,” she said. “There’s 
no news, I suppose?” 

“ ‘News’?” 

“How’s Sir Noel?” 

“He’s all right.” 

“And your wife?” 

“Thanks.” 

There was a second’s pause, in which Maurice 
wondered what her amiability meant, and her 
eyes suggested that there was something that she 
was trying to say. 


222 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“I’m very glad to have seen you again,” she 

said. “I We oughtn’t to quarrel; I lost my 

head. I hope you’ll look me up one day. Will 
you?” 

He wasn’t sure whether so much forgiveness 
was welcome, or the reverse, but he was instantly 
touched by it. 

“I shall be delighted. It’s very good of you 
to overlook everything.” 

“Come in any day you like. Do! I’m always 
in about five. I won’t keep you now. So long!” 

She put out her hand again, and he continued 
his way, still undecided whether he was pleased 
to have met her. The sting of their last interview 
had not long been mollified by a feeling of thank- 
fulness that no further variance could occur be- ' 
tween them ; and the reconciliation might be only 
a prelude to renewed entreaties. 

Rosa drove on in the best of spirits. She had 
wished for such a meeting for the last fortnight, 
for she had now the strongest motive for desiring 
Helen’s acquaintance, and was sanguine of over- 
coming his objections when he understood the 
situation. She had considered writing to him, 
but the course presented difficulties, and as the 
matter wasn’t urgent, she had done no more than 
play with the pen. So much had she wanted to 
see him that she had seldom gone out without 


THE WORLDLINGS 


223 


hoping for it; but this afternoon, as it happened, 
she had not thought of him, and her luck exhilar- 
ated her the more because it was unexpected. 

While the hansom bore her back to the hotel, 
she foresaw herself explaining the circumstances 
and making her request when he came. But when 
he did come, after a few days, and she reflected 
that he would come again, she began to think that 
it would be more tactful to arrive at the request 
by degrees. 

“I asked you if there was any news when I 
met you,” she said; “you might return the com- 
pliment. What would you say if I told you I 
was on the verge of a big coup ? If things go as 
• — as I expect them to go, you won’t be the only 
successful one. It’s on the cards that I make a 
fine match!” 

It gratified her intensely to tell him that she 
had been independent of his offices; if she could 
have done without them altogether, the moment 
would have gratified her even more. But then 
he wouldn’t have been here! 

“I’m heartily glad to hear it,” said Maurice; 
“I thought you looked very satisfied with your- 
self.” He felt as awkward with her as he had 
done in the streets, and it amazed him that she 
could talk so easily. 

“I met him at Monte Carlo. He hasn’t popped 


THE WORLDLINGS 


- — of course it takes longer because of my posi- 
tion — but he’s wildly in love. Myl isn’t he! He 
sends me flowers, and comes to tea. I talk of my 
poor husband, ‘Colonel Fleming’ . . . one of the 
oldest families in America. I think it’ll be all 
right. ... It was very funny at the beginning 
at Monte Carlo; I caught him mashing a lady 
who was a ‘lady’ a colonel’s widow couldn’t know; 
Emilie had told me about her. My face was a 
treat. So was his when I shivered! The shiver 
settled his doubts about me for the time being. 
. . . Still, he hasn’t come to the point, near as he 
is to it ; shivers are all very well, but he’d like to 
see some connections — he’s a baronet.” 

“Oh?” said Maurice; “what’s his name — I may 
ask, mayn’t I?” 

“I think you know him — he has mentioned you. 
He — er — isn’t young, but he’s lively for his age. 
I guess plenty of society girls — girls whose peo- 
ple have got titles themselves — would jump at 
him. It’s Sir Adolphus Bligh.” 

Maurice looked blank. Sir Adolphus was an 
old friend of Lady Wrensfordsley’s, and a fre- 
quent visitor at Prince’s Gardens. He was, as 
Rosa said, lively for his age — too lively in the 
opinion of women who were constantly compelled 
to affect short-sightedness in public — but he had 
been regarded as a confirmed widower for years. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


225 


The suggestion that his folly might reach the 
length of marriage with an adventuress was un- 
pleasantly strange. What a flutter the marriage 
would cause, although no one would know the 
truth about her! 

"It’s good enough,” she said, complacently, 
“eh? Monkspool is nearly as old as Croft Court, 
isn’t it, and he’s very rich — there’s no doubt about 
it, I suppose?” 

“Sir Adolphus has six thousand a year, and 
the best shooting in Hampshire,” he answered. 
“Of course it would be a very good thing for you 
- — pecuniarily, though I should have thought your 
prospects were all right without him.” 

“Ah, pecuniarily!” she said. “There’s more 
than a pecuniary pull. Look what I shall be!” 

Maurice twisted his moustache. He was sin- 
cerely sorry that she had imparted her news. 
Events must take their course, but he would have 
preferred to remain ignorant of their drift until 
he heard of the wedding. 

The perception that he had not said quite all 
he thought made Rosa ponder when he had gone. 
She could not believe that he would demur any 
more when she pointed out the immediate value 
of his wife’s recognition, but she was glad that 
she had refrained from asking for it to-day. And 
if the distastefulness of suing to him again proved 


226 


THE WORLDLINGS 


unnecessary after all, her triumph would be com- 
plete. She would have forgiven like a Christian, 
and would ultimately tender his wife her finger- 
tips as Lady Bligh! 

Her joy had been intoxicating when she saw 
that her elderly admirer’s intentions were serious 
— prior to the shiver of which she had spoken 
she had had some doubt of the nature of his in- 
tentions; and his delay in confessing himself had 
surprised her. Experience had taught her that 
in love matters the elderly were generally the 
expeditious. That the tardiness was attributable 
to his reluctance to take a wife of whom nobody 
knew anything had not occurred to her imme- 
diately — it had been his discreet inquiries, his evi- 
dent eagerness to discover a mutual friend, that 
supplied the hint — and, as was natural in a wom- 
an of her class, she under-estimated the reluc- 
tance still. The gay old gentleman with the 
waxed mustache and the big picotee was so ob- 
viously fascinated that it seemed to her that such 
considerations could weigh with him very little. 

Nevertheless, though Sir Adolphus called two 
or three times in the next week, his proposal re- 
mained unuttered, and she dropped a line to 
Maurice begging him to remember that they were 
reconciled. She would not humiliate herself to 
him till she was certain that it was unavoidable, 


THE WORLDLINGS 




but the more often they met in the meanwhile the 
easier the petition would be to make. 

She was a very handsome woman, and a wom- 
an who could guard her vocabulary when need- 
ful. Sir Adolphus w T as in truth allured ; his strug- 
gles were pathetic. The idea of re-marrying had 
not crossed his mind till recently, and an aphor- 
ism of his early widowhood, “The man who loses 
his wife and marries again did not deserve to lose 
his wife,” had been only the frank expression of 
his views. Now, however, he meditated that the 
property would go to his nephew Percy and that 
it was an Englishman’s duty to try to avert the 
succession of a prig who eyed him with reproval, 
and had “Percy” for a front name. He derived 
malicious pleasure from allowing the news of his 
attachment to reach the young man’s ears; and 
among the Saviles the consternation was extreme. 

When the season was almost over and town had 
already thinned, Helen received from Lady 
Wrensfordsley a letter that contained the follow- 
ing passage : 

“Clara Savile has confided to me that Sir Dolly 
talks of marrying ! and some person that nobody 
ever heard of before!! You may imagine what a 
state they are in. If he should have a son, Agatha 
and her husband will be simply beggars — and one 


THE WORLDLINGS 


never knows. I believe they have only got her 
settlement to live on till the succession. Her 
mother positively shed tears! I was quite sorry 
for her. You would be doing a real charity if you 
tacked on his name to the people you expect at 
Pangbourne. They are moving heaven and earth 
to get him out of the woman’s reach, and think 
that if he’d accept anybody’s invitation it would 
be yours. I said I would mention it to you. If 
you are ordering anything at Lady Pontefract’s, 
please tell her that I consider her bill outrageous. 
Really I shall have to give up dealing at my 
friends’! I can’t afford them. If it’s true that 
the Duchess thinks of starting a milliner’s in 
South Audley Street, you may be sure that no- 
body but the Americans, and the Cape people, 
will be able to stand the prices. Don’t forget, 
there’s a good girl — I mean about Sir Dolly.” 

The intelligence startled Helen slightly. Sir 
Adolphus had romped with her when she was a 
child, and she appreciated the fact that since she 
had been a woman he had always taken pains to 
show his best side to her. To hear that he was in 
danger of making himself ridiculous was distress- 
ing. She felt sorry for Agatha as well; and she 
wrote the desired invitation at once. If she had 
been better occupied, she would probably have 


THE WORLDLINGS 


229 


waited until the morrow, but she was alone, and 
her book was dull. 

She had not long despatched the note when 
the footman announced: “Mrs. Bligh.” 

Agatha was evidently ignorant of the request 
that had emanated from Oakenhurst, and more 
than ten minutes passed before she approached 
the matter that engrossed her. She touched'upon 
everything but what she had come to say, envy- 
ing the other’s position meanwhile more bitterly 
than she had envied it yet. 

At last she said: 

“Oh, we are so concerned about poor Sir Dolly, 
dear! His mind is quite giving way — he wants 
to marry. Isn’t it sad? Of course, outsiders 
would only laugh, but to the family his collapse 
is pitiable. Such a brilliant man he used to be!” 

“I heard from Whichcote that he was likely to 
marry,” said Helen. “I’ve asked him to come to 
us at Pangbourne; your mother hinted that it 
was rather desirable to persuade him to leave 
town. Do you think he’ll accept?” 

“Oh, have you? At Pangbourne? How kind 
of you, dear ! But you don’t go for more than a 
month, do you? Another month of the lady’s 
society might be quite fatal — I hope we shall be 
able to stop it before then. You know Percy has 


230 


THE WORLDLINGS 


always been like a son to the old man; he felt it 
his duty to — to do all he could.” 

“Naturally,” said Helen. She looked through 
the window — at the trees in the square, and at 
other women’s children, who had lived. “Let me 
give you some more tea.” The transparent dis- 
ingenuousness of the pose irritated her, and for 
a moment she repented her attempt to come to 
the rescue. 

“No more, thanks, dearest. I wonder — be- 
tween ourselves now — if you know her name: she 
calls herself ‘Mrs. Fleming’?” 

“I suppose there are thousands of women one 
doesn’t know who are very nice,” said Helen, 
coolly. “Sir Dolly might be extremely happy 
with her.” 

A tinge of confusion entered into Agatha’s 
solicitude for him. “Do you think so?” she said. 
“Do you? — you don’t? Of course one can’t ig- 
nore that it would be very cruel towards Percy, 
too, but really one doesn’t think so much of that 
as of the scandal. It’d be too shocking! For- 
tunately we made inquiries — there must be limits 
even to Sir Dolly’s weakness. She’s quite impos- 
sible. I know I may talk openly to you, dear; 
she was about London constantly the year before 
last, with your husband, and people say that he 
knew her very well.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


231 


Helen whitened a little — the stab had been un- 
foreseen — but her gaze never flinched. The other 
woman was leaning forward, wearing a confiden- 
tial smile ; and she smiled back finely. 

“Really?” she said; “but then there are always 
people who’re glad to say spiteful things. Are 
you sure you won’t have any more tea?” 

“I daren’t. Sir David told Percy I was ruin- 
ing my nerves with tea. So meddlesome of him! 
I had to promise to give it up. Percy implored; 
and when one marries for love, one makes these 
sacrifices — you can’t imagine how absurd one 
gets ! Oh, my dear Helen, there’s no doubt about 
the intimacy! Uncle Fred had chambers in the 
same house as Mr. Jardine, and she was found in 
your husband’s rooms once in the middle of the 
night. I don’t suppose there’s anything in it now 
— of course he only goes to see her for auld lang 
syne! — but she’s quite depraved.” 

She wondered if Agatha had heard her heart 
thud. While she fought for composure, the weak- 
ness mounted from her body to her brain and she 
saw through a mist. She was torn between a 
passionate eagerness to question the hateful wom- 
an opposite, and a horror of yielding her the tri- 
umph. Pride conquered. 

“People allow themselves many liberties on 
the plea of auld lang syne,” she said steadily. 




THE WORLDLINGS 


“Where do you go yourselves in the autumn — 
Oakenhurst, isn’t it ? Give my love to your moth- 
er, if I don’t see you again.” 

Agatha rose, the smile fastened to her face by 
a painful effort. 

“It was quite too sweet of you to ask Sir Dolly 
down,” she said; “of course you couldn’t know 
what arguments we had found.” They always 
kissed, and to omit the ceremony would be to 
acknowledge her discomfiture ; her eyes betrayed 
her fear of committing herself as she drew near- 
er. “I must run away; I had no idea it was so 
late, and we’re dining early this evening.” 

Helen put forth her fingers, and she was furi- 
ous that she had not taken the initiative. She 
squeezed them gently. 

“By, by, dear,” she said, still smiling with stiff 
lips. 




CHAPTER XVIII 

In the moment that the door closed Helen’s 
predominant emotion was relief. Humiliation 
rushed in upon her the next instant, but the first 
quick consciousness was of thanksgiving to be left 
alone. She dropped back into the chair weakly, 
and, with her gaze fixed upon the same point for 
minutes, sat seeing nothing. Was it true — not 
eighteen months married, and unfaithful to her? 
Her reason told her that it was a malignant lie — 
a person who was base enough to wound her with 
the tale so gratuitously was base enough to invent 
it — but reason could not quiet the wakened doubt. 

How could Agatha have heard? He had been 
seen! By whom — Agatha, or friends of hers? 
Was it already food for gossip? Where was she, 
this Mrs. Fleming? Even the name was unfa- 
miliar. Her mind groped in the dusk of igno- 
rance piteously, and the vast living fact of the un- 
known woman overwhelmed her. 

Should she ask him if it was true? Should 

she say to him ? He was in the smoking- 

room; she might go to him and tell him what 
had been said — now, while the impulse was hot 
233 




THE WORLDLINGS 


in her! She half raised herself, but the futility 
of the question weighted her limbs. What an- 
swer but one was possible? He would declare 
that the woman was nothing to him — and the 
doubt would remain. 

Then it was never to be ended? The suspicion 
was to haunt her — she was to wonder when he 
kissed her, and imagine whenever he was out? 
Tears gathered in her eyes, and splashed on her 
locked hands. How did women bear these things 
that were whispered over tea-tables with smiles; 
how had her mother borne her life? Hadn’t she 
suffered? 

Oh, it was horrible ! Her father and her hus- 
band! Were all men alike? And onlookers con- 
sidered it amusing. How often she had heard 
women make a jest of another’s misery — as they 
might be jesting now at hers! She shivered. 
Weren’t they afraid to laugh, when their own 
turn might come to-morrow or next week? 

If you didn’t care for the man, of course the 
pain was less — the abasement was easier to en- 
dure; and there might be some who asked no 
more than the position for which they yielded 
themselves. Those who married without love 
must be least wretched, unless they loved after- 
wards, like herself — like a fool — when it was too 
late! How low she had been — what a degrada- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


235 


tion, stripping the cant and the orange-blossoms 
from the sale ! Supposing he retorted that he had 
the right to hold his mistress just as high? “When 
one marries for love — you can’t imagine it!** 
That odious woman! She had wanted Philip her- 
self and was envious still, although she was a wife 
now — although she believed him incapable of fi- 
delity. What a world, what a sordid, hypocrit- 
ical, vile world — the women were as vicious as 
the men! Her little baby! She craved to clasp 
his body to her breast. ... At least he had died 
while he was pure. 

Excepting when her hand rose mechanically 
to smear away the tears, she sat motionless till 
the gong sounded. Then she lingered before the 
glass, and went slowly to her maid. She might 
plead a headache and dine in her room this even- 
ing, but to-morrow evening she would again have 
to dine downstairs. What was an evening more 
or less! The necessity for replying to Maurice 
at the table, for assuming her ordinary demean- 
our in the drawing-room, demanded one of those 
efforts that are called superhuman. It was a rare 
occurrence for him to leave the house after din- 
ner now that she preferred to remain at home ; but 
sometimes he went into a club for an hour — and 
she found herself waiting to hear him say that 
he was going out to-night. She felt vulgar and 


23 6 


THE WORLDLINGS 


contemptible; she hated herself for it; but in 
every silence she knew that she was waiting. 

Conversation ceased. She found her book, and 
he picked up his own. In the long lamplit room 
the soft ticking of a Louis Quartorze clock, and 
the occasional flutter of a bird’s wings from the 
fernery were the only sounds. After half an hour 
the man’s book drooped, and he sat watching her 
wistfully; noting at what lengthy intervals she 
turned the pages and wondering what had 
troubled her. Her face was concealed, but his 
gaze dwelt upon her fingers on the cover — upon 
the fairness of her brow, upon the glimmer of 
her instep through the black lace stocking. She 
lifted her head, and their eyes met. 

“What’s wrong, Helen?” he asked, going over 
to her. 

The impulse to tell him what she had heard 
seized her again; and again she wavered, in the 
knowledge that he must deny. 

“Wrong?” she said. “What makes you think 
there’s anything wrong?” 

“You aren’t reading; you had to make your- 
self talk; you’ve been crying.” The words were 
a lover’s ; the tone was the tone of cheerful non- 
chalance to which he had schooled himself. “I 
don’t want to be inquisitive, but is there anything 
I can do?” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


JOT 


She might have said “Yes; care for me as you 
cared before I showed that it bored me!” — she 
might have said it earlier — but she wasn’t a wom- 
an to whom a gush of appeal was easy. The 
novel lay open on her lap, and her forefinger 
travelled slowly up the edges of the paper. 

“Agatha called to-day,” she murmured. She 
was going to test the story, and she felt more 
despicable still. 

“Oh,” said Maurice, “how is she?” 

“She’s worried. They’re afraid Sir Dolly 
means to marry a Mrs. Fleming. Have you 
heard of her, Philip?” 

He had not expected her to mention the mat- 
ter till the engagement was announced. The 
name on her lips, the quick inquiry that followed 
it, took him aback. He looked away. 

“Heard of her?” he repeated. “Y-e-s.” 

“Do you know her?” 

He was already collecting his wits. 

“I used to know her,” he said; “I’ve met her. 
So Sir Dolly is going to marry her, is he? It’s 
rather rough on the Blighs.” 

He had known her — Agatha had been right in 
that! But his embarrassment might have meant 
no more. She trembled an instant between self- 
abhorrence and temptation. Should she go on? 


238 THE WORLDLINGS 

'Another question, and the uncertainty might be 
over. 

‘‘Do you ever meet her now?” she said. 

To Maurice his pause seemed longer than it 
was. Why did she ask? What should he an- 
swer? To say “No” w r as repugnant to him, more- 
over it might be unwise; to say “Yes” might call 
for explanations that he was unprepared to give. 
His hesitancy did not last five seconds; but it 
lasted long enough to swell her fear. 

“I saw her a few weeks ago in Pall Mall,” he 
said; “I stopped and spoke to her. Why?” 

“Nothing,” said Helen; “I — wondered.” 

She raised the novel. And the tick of the 
clock, and the restless flutter of a bird were the 
only sounds again. 


i 


CHAPTER XIX 


What had she meant? Why had she looked 
at him like that? She had discovered something! 
• — he felt it in his veins. She would have avoided 
his kiss when she said good-night. He turned 
back from the door, quaking. The trend of her 
suspicion did not occur to him — innocence is dull- 
brained. His mind sprang to his guilt, and a cold 
sweat broke out over him as he asked himself if 
anything could have happened that menaced ex- 
posure. 

What — what? His thoughts scoured the field 
of conjecture vainly. Could he be mistaken — 
was there no significance in her queries but what 
his alarm attributed? But, then, why her man- 
ner? 

Not for an hour was he in sight of the truth; 
and he dismissed the idea as puerile. Even if he 
had been heard to inquire for Mrs. Fleming by 
someone who had mentioned the visit, there was 
no reason why Helen should hold it an offence 
against her. Mrs. Fleming was ostensibly a re- 
spectable acquaintance. She was engaged, or 
about to be engaged, to Sir Adolphus Bligh. 

239 


240 


THE WORLDLINGS 


Helen would have said “I’m told you know this 
Mrs. Fleming that Sir Dolly is raving about. 
How is it I haven’t met her? what’s she like?” 
Some surprise, a natural curiosity, but no more! 
No, her manner wasn’t to be accounted for by 
jealousy — even assuming that she cared for him 
enough to be troubled were there cause. He 
was doubtful if she did. Complaisance appeared 
to be a feature of the women’s education in the 
world where he was an intruder — in the world 
where marriage was a display, a barter, anything 
but a union ! 

A new element had entered into his torture: 
he was harassed by misgiving. He felt that he 
himself had nothing to lose — felt it honestly — 
the game hadn’t been worth the candle; had he 
stood alone, the whisper — if they did whisper — 
might have risen to a roar and they could have 
done what they liked with him. But he would 
ruin her if he fell: and he swore he wouldn’t 
fall. Before disgrace should touch his wife he 
was ready to perjure himself with a face of brass 
and to break every law made by God or man. 

And Helen meanwhile continued to question 
in every hour of the day whether he had dishon- 
oured her. Now the rare thing had happened — 
her soul had shed its veil and leapt to the woman 
naked; she was dizzy in the light of self-revela- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


241 


tion. In the doubt that tormented her, his pres- 
ence was an ignominy, and his voice was a lash; 
but she loved him. How deep her love Had grown 
hadn’t been known to her till this fear that she 
had lost him entirely tugged at its roots. It 
stabbed her to reflect that the stranger had, at" 
least, been his mistress once, and she hated 
Agatha for telling her; she wished to blot from 
her mind all consciousness that other women had 
played parts in his life; she saw that her own 
was filled by him. She recalled their honeymoon ; 
she looked back with wet eyes at the months in 
which she knew that she had held him — at the 
time when he kissed the slippers that she wore. 
When had the other influence been recovered? 
O, God! How he had insulted her, degraded 
her. She twisted her hands. 

But was it true? How did one find out such 
things? She couldn’t live like this; she must be 
sure ! She wondered if the story had reached her 
mother’s ears, if her mother found it convincing; 
she was to be in town shortly — when they were 
together it might be possible to ascertain. And 
Sir Dolly, what of him? He had accepted the 
invitation; the fact had been somewhat surpris- 
ing i had his intentions changed, or would he snap 
his fingers at the Saviles’ interference and excuse 


242 THE WORLDLINGS 

himself later from coming, on the grounds of his 
engagement? 

Lady Wrensfordsley’s visit to town was for the 
purpose of a day’s shopping, and she would, of 
course, spend the night at Prince’s Gardens. 

The geniality of her greeting was an instant 
relief to Maurice, for he had dreaded to find her 
air as constrained as Helen’s. Helen herself was 
more than once persuaded by it, while they 
shopped and drove, that Lady Savile had re- 
frained from repeating the tale that Agatha had 
doubtless communicated post haste, and she was 
a little perplexed ; she was eager for her mother’s 
judgment, but shrank from approaching the sub- 
ject. Only at dinner the visitor’s sunniness was 
a tinge too sunny, her satisfaction with every- 
body and everything, except Lady Pontefract’s 
bill, a shade too complete to deceive one who had 
been familiar with her voice for years; and now 
her daughter watched her hungrily, striving to 
arrive at her opinion before she uttered it. 

The hope that Helen had not been told had 
died in Lady Wrensfordsley at the moment when 
she first entered the drawing-room, and consider- 
able nervousness underlay the serenity with which 
she at last declared herself tired. She foresaw 
a bad half-hour, as she was accompanied, and 
memories intensified her pity. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


243 

It appeared to Helen that her maid was very 
slow in attendance on another. The preparations 
threatened to be interminable, as, waiting for the 
girl to finish, she sat gazing mutely at the tea- 
things that were to minister to Lady Wrensfords- 
ley’s unconquered vice. Yet when the maid had 
gone, the power to speak seemed to have gone 
as well, and the silence continued. 

It was broken by the elder woman. 

“You’re going to have some with me, aren’t 
you?” she inquired cheerfully, coming to the 
table. “Really not? That’s a very good girl 
of yours, dear; you were very fortunate to get 
her. Other people’s maids are so clumsy as a 
rule — like boots, they’re no use to anybody but 
the owner.” She poured out her tea, and sipped 
it with increasing apprehension. “I’ve been 
thinking,” she went on, after a pause, “that the 
insertion would have been more effective than 
the ruche, do you know! ... I wonder? I’ve 
a good mind to send a wire in the morning. What 
do you think yourself?” 

Helen got up, and stood with her elbow resting 
on the mantelshelf. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Lady Wrensfords- 
ley. “Aren’t you well?” 

“Mother ! You know !” 

“I know?” said Lady Wrensfordsley. “I know; 


244 THE WORLDLINGS 

what? What is it — what are you looking like 
that for?” 

“You know what’s said; you know that they 
say this woman is — is Philip’s mistress. Agatha 
told me — they’ve told you . Don’t pretend to me 
‘ — I want you to talk to me, to tell me what to do. 
Should I believe it? Do you believe it? Tell me 
the truth!” 

“Believe it? Why should I believe anything 
so perfectly ridiculous? Agatha told you, did 
she? And what proof did the cat give you? My 
dear Helen, I thought you had more sense! Sir 
Dolly wants to marry the woman, and it’s to 
their interest to take away her character. Can’t 
you see that?” 

“They’re not compelled to take away Philip’s; 
there are other men in London. . . . Before I 
married him everyone knew about him and — and 
Mrs. Fleming. Did you know?” 

“I did not,” said Lady Wrensfordsley. “And 
who says that everyone knew — Agatha? If 
you’re going to be happy, my dear, the first thing 
you’ve got to learn is to believe very little of 
what ‘they say.’ People say anything, especially 
spiteful women who are envious of one match, 
and eager to break off another. I fervently trust 
that Sir Dolly will marry this Mrs. Fleming, and 


THE WORLDLINGS 


245 


that he’ll have a son with the least possible de- 
lay!” 

“Why does he go to see her now, if he’s true 
to me?” exclaimed Helen quickly. “Is it natural 
for a man to visit a woman he used to know like 
that, if he cares for his wife? Why does he go 
to her if there’s no wrong?” 

“ ‘Why’? . . . How do you know he does go? 
You seem to be wonderfully credulous all of a 
sudden.” 

“I asked him. He hesitated; he admitted that 
he had ‘met’ her. Oh, my eyes are clear enough, 
I could see I had startled him.” 

“I daresay you did if you looked at him as you 
look now — you’d startle anybody. I keep telling 
you that you’ve no reason to think he did know 
her like that. When a . good-looking woman’s 
alone, someone is always ready to explain her 
income in such a way.” 

“What do you mean?” said Helen. “Do you 
mean that she was supposed to take — to take 

money from him? She’s a woman who Oh, 

my God! he insults me for her — the love that’s 
sold — the love that’s sold!” 

She began to sob, catching her lip between 
her teeth in an effort to steady herself. 

“I thought,” said her mother, feebly, “you told 
me that Agatha ” 


24 6 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“You thought I knew — yes. Oh, it doesn’t 
matter! What difference does it make who she 
is if he has gone back to her? Why should I 
mind? Has he? Tell me! You treat me like a 
child. You sit there trying to deceive me. I’m 
a woman — I’m his wife — I’ve a right to know.” 

“I’ve told you. The story’s nonsense. Helen, 
don’t!” She went across to her dismayed, stretch- 
ing out nervous hands. 

“I don’t believe you — I don’t believe you think 
so. Of course, you say so — you think it best for 
me to say so. You don’t think what it is to me 
to be with him, if it’s true : the horror of it — day 
after day! now! You mean to be kind, but you 
don’t understand — you don’t understand!” 

“Z don’t ‘understand’?” murmured Lady 
Wrensfordsley, with a lifetime in her voice. 

Helen raised her head, and for a moment the 
eyes of the women met. 

“Ah, mother! mother !” 

She drooped to her with the cry, and some sec- 
onds passed while they held each other without 
speaking. 

“Listen,” said Lady Wrensfordsley, “I under- 
stand — I understand much better than you can 
realise. One is never young to one’s child, but 
I was younger than you when I married. I’ve 
been through it all, just as you are going through 


THE .WORLDLINGS 


m 


it. I oughtn’t to say that to you ; but you know. 
At the beginning I tried to find out, just as you 
are trying to find out. And when I succeeded I 
broke my heart. Helen, don’t ask! You might 
prove him true now — and again, and perhaps 
again; but the day’d come when you’d ask once 
too often. And nothing pays for that. Close 
your eyes; the contented woman is the woman 
who doesn’t see too much. Love isn’t blind, be- 
cause there’s no love without jealousy, and jeal- 
ousy’s an Argus ; but contentment’s as blind as a 
bat.” 

“ ‘Contentment’? To suffer — to question! 
You say that I’m mistaken — tell me how to be 
sure of it. Never mind the future — I’d never 
-suspect him any more. I’d go on my knees to 
him and ask his pardon. The doubt’s killing me 
— tell me how to be sure to-day!” 

“And supposing you found you were right? 
I don’t say you would — I don’t think you would ; 
but if you did? What do you imagine that cer- 
tainty ’d do for you? Your doubt’ll die. You 
can’t believe that, but some time — in a few months 
perhaps — you’ll look back and wonder at it. Per- 
haps you’ll be wrong to wonder — perhaps you’ll 
be right; but right, or wrong, the revulsion comes 
to every woman who’s as fond of a man as you 
are. I didn’t dream how fond you were. Knowl- 


248 


THE WORLDLINGS 


edge never dies; I have known it poison every; 
hour of fifteen years.” 

“If I found I was right, certainty would— -» 
would save me from shuddering at myself,” 
stammered Helen; “that’s what it would do! I 
should wish I were dead, but the worst humilia- 
tion would be over.” 

“You wouldn’t make a scandal?” gasped Lady 
Wrensfordsley. “You wouldn’t do that?” 

“Make a scandal — I? Isn’t it the scandal that 
he should come to me from — from that woman’s 
arms and that I should have to tolerate his touch, 
and — and give him my lips? I tell you that it’s 
driving me mad, the shame of it! Make a scan- 
dal — If* 

“If you knew you were right, it would be very 
awful. At the same time ” 

“You feel that I’m right, or you wouldn’t ad- 
vise me to bear the doubt.” 

“Your position gone! ‘ Poor Lady Helen!’ — • 
everybody talking. How would you bear that?” 

“Some people talk already.” 

“But you don’t suffer socially while you re- 
main with him. Think what you’d lose! You 
don’t mean it?” 

“Socially? Oh no, I don’t ‘suffer socially’ 
while I remain with him — I forgot. I suffer just 
a little in my heart — I feel just a little lowered, 


THE WORLDLINGS 


249 


and unclean. But I havn’t reached the martyr- 
dom of suffering socially!” She lifted steadfast 
eyes, and to both the women who had loved with- 
out comprehending each other, the great gulf 
that separated them was clear. “I wouldn’t sub- 
mit to the dishonour to keep a coronet,” she said. 

Lady Wrensfordsley moved about the room in 
purposeless inquietude. Her transformation, 
which she had retained in prospect of the inter- 
view, had been displaced, and the sign of trouble 
on her forehead was deepened by the unfamiliar 
glimpse of grey hair. 

Helen kissed her, and drew back to her seat. 

“I’ll leave you now, mother. You’ve had 
enough.” 

“Are you tired, dear? Good-night. I shan’t 
go to bed yet.” Her hand lingered. “I’m posi- 
tive of one thing — he’s very fond of you. I’ve 
no doubt about that at all. If he lost you he’d 
be dreadfully cut up.” 

“We won’t talk about it any more, dearest. 
I’m so sorry.” 

“Wait a minute. I mean it. Whatever he 
may, or mayn’t have done, he’s very fond of you. 
Don’t overlook it.” 

“If he were fond of me still, I shouldn’t be 
wondering. He used to be; it was my fault that 
he changed, I know.” 


250 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“And yet you’d divorce him for — for a mad- 
ness ? When all is said, wouldn’t it be rather hard 
for you? ... Sit down — you wouldn’t sleep. I 
want to tell you something that we take a long 
time to learn. We never do learn it, really, or 
we mightn’t be so wretched, but after a great 
many years we begin to get an inkling of it. We 
oughtn’t to judge our husbands from our own 
standpoint. You said just now that if Philip 
cared for you, he couldn’t be unfaithful; I assure 
you that you’re wrong. We’re better than men 
are, in some things — we’re less unselfish, and less 
grateful, but we sin with more refinement. A 
woman has to fancy herself in love with another 
man before she deceives her husband; but a man 
can run after other women while he knows he 
loves his wife. I’m not saying that all men do 
— Philip mayn’t for one — but there are hundreds 
and thousands who can. The woman who refuses 
to believe that her husband loves her simply be- 
cause she discovers him to be inconstant, only un- 
derstands her own nature.” 

“ ‘Simply’?” said Helen. “The woman who 
‘simply’ discovers it?” 

“Yes; if the bare fact is all she has to go upon, 
she only understands her own nature — she doesn’t 
understand men’s. And such as it is, it’s what 
we ought to judge them by. They’re the slaves 


THE WORLDLINGS 


251 


of their impulses, to use a pretty word; their 
point of view is totally different from ours — they 
can’t see what we have to make such a fuss about. 
Many a man who deceives his wife without the 
slightest compunction would go through fire and 
water to save her from a grief he understood. 
My dear child, don’t let’s forget that if men had 
self-control, most women would die old maids! 
Nobody can imagine that men marry because 
they find their most suitable companions; the 
number of ‘kindred souls’ that happened to drift 
together every year, in St. James’s alone, would 
he quite miraculous! They marry because they 
can’t resist temptation. While we are the temp- 
tation we aren’t surprised — and why expect a 
man’s nature to be altered by a wedding cere- 
mony?” 

“Why didn’t you ask me that while I was en- 
gaged?” returned Helen drearily. 

“My dear!” exclaimed her mother, looking a 
little shocked. . . . “What I am telling you is 
quite right,” she went on; “men are ruled by their 
passions; but after marriage there may be affec- 
tion and esteem — after marriage they may have 
quite a different feeling for their wives than for 
anybody else. I think in most cases they have. 
That’s what I mean by saying that they can’t 
see what we have to make such a fuss about when 


252 


THE WORLDLINGS 


they’re horrible. The feeling they give way to is 
often so much lower than their feeling for our- 
selves — so separate from their affection — that 
they don’t understand our being jealous of it.” 

“I am not ‘jealous,’ ” said Helen, rising; “I 
am revolted.” 

“Yes,” sighed Lady Wrensfordsley, “I know ; 
we never say we are jealous till it has ceased to 
be true.” 

“Good-night, mother.” 

“Good-night. . . . Your eyes are red; he’ll 
wonder — you’d better use my puff before you 
go.” 

“Have you everything you want? A book?” 

“No. I shan’t read. . . . Take my advice now 
and don’t meet trouble half-way.” 

“They shall bring breakfast in to you in the 
morning; don’t get up!” 

“Oh, I’ll get up; I may as well. Half-past 
nine, isn’t it?” 

“You had better not — you are sure to be tired. 
I shall say you aren’t to be called.” 

“Well, if you think so, dear! — perhaps it would 
be best. . . . Good-night.” 

“Good-night.” 


CHAPTER XX 


Maurice had not been to see Rosa since Helen 
referred to her. His fear had faded; but to call 
upon her was neither pleasant nor necessary. It 
was impossible for him to feel at ease in the pres- 
ence of a woman who had told him that he was a 
liar and a blackguard, and he considered that the 
few visits he had already made were sufficient 
to show that he appreciated her forgiveness. A 
few days after Lady Wrensfordsley’s departure 
he received another note, reproaching him for his 
absentment; and he replied that he was at the 
point of leaving for the Court. The statement 
was quite true, but he omitted to add that he was 
going that evening, and returning on the morrow. 
Such flying trips, either in Helen’s company, or 
alone, were frequently made to the old man, and 
eagerly anticipated by him. 

Rosa was perturbed. That she would have to 
seek assistance from Maurice had latterly looked 
to her inevitable ; Sir Adolphus was also absent- 
ing himself, and on the last occasion that he came 
had said nothing more definite than that he was 
going to Pangbourne on the first of next month 
253 


254 


THE WORLDLINGS 


to stay at Lady Helen Jardine’s. Pangbourne 
was far enough from the Langham; but, com- 
pared with other places that he had lightly men- 
tioned, it was round the corner. A cacoethes for 
travel seemed suddenly to have possessed the old 
gentleman, and an airy allusion to Damascus had 
struck her dumb. 

If she had failed to realise, during their con- 
versation, that her prospect had suffered an un- 
expected blow, the ensuing week would have 
made it clear to her ; and now that the waiter no 
longer announced him at the hour of tea-gowns, 
she saw it was more luck than judgment that per- 
mitted her to remain confident of victory. He 
was to be Maurice’s guest and admired her much 
too ardently to be able to stay in the same house 
with her without proposing ; her desire to conquer 
single-handed hadn’t been fatal, near as it had 
come to being so! But that she should be invited 
to Pangbourne was imperative; and now Maurice 
was leaving town — had probably left it! She 
threw his answer on the floor in disgust. 

In point of fact, he had just started for Wa- 
terloo as she tore open his envelope. Helen was 
not accompanying him this time ; she was still at 
the dinner-table, from which he had risen on the 
removal of the sweets. She had not petitioned 
her mother again to help her to set her mind at 


THE WORLDLINGS 


255 


rest — she knew that it would be useless — nor had 
she responded in her letters to the guarded hope 
that she was “feeling better.” It seemed to her 
that she would never feel better in her life, and 
there was no need to cause further distress by 
saying so. They regarded the matter from dif- 
ferent standpoints: to her mother’s view it was 
folly to be wise — to herself such ignorance was 
continuous torment. They were rooted to their 
positions, with the shield between them, and not 
all the talking in the world would ever turn it. 

Her dessert plate was before her, and she was 
alone, but the fruit was untasted. While she sat 
thinking, a hansom rattled to the house, and the 
next moment the click of a latchkey told her that 
her husband had driven back. She wondered 
what he had forgotten, for it was only a minute 
or two since he had said good-bye. 

She heard him stride along the hall and stop at 
the hat-stand. A clatter of sticks and umbrellas 
reached her, as an overcoat was swept against 
the handles. Whatever he had sought, it was 
found almost at once, for the impetuous search 
was brief. Then the scratch of a vesta suggested 
that it was his cigar-case that had been left be- 
hind. He hurried out; the door was slammed 
again, and she heard him run down the four steps. 

The sound of the horse’s hoofs grew fainter; 


256 


THE WORLDLINGS 


the clip-clop died away. In the street there was 
momentary silence. She traced lines on the cloth 
with the fork and wished that it were time to go 
to bed. She was, anomalously, relieved to be 
free of his presence and lonely without him; she 
began to regret that she had not gone to Oaken- 
hurst herself. . . . 

Presently the postman went to the next house 
but one; she always knew when he had reached 
that — it was the only house on this side with a 
knocker. She paused, with a strawberry between 
her fingers, and listened. Even letters would 
make an incident. He was going to the next 
house, too. . . . Now he had come down. Was 
he passing? No, he stopped — he was coming 
here. There was the slow, heavy ascent, the pull 
at the bell ; and then a second ring, which meant 
that he was waiting. Something unstamped, or 
too big for the box! 

She heard the servant’s lighter footfall on the 
stairs — his leisurely approach. It was interesting 
to note the time that he found it possible to take 
between the two doors. . . . 

“For Mr. Jardine, or me?” 

“For you, my lady.” 

She turned her head, and saw Maurice’s keys 
lying beside the letters. 

“Where do these come from?” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


257 


“They were left in the door, my lady. The 
postman just saw them.” 

“Oh,” she said; “it’s lucky he did. Very well, 
put them down. . . . And, Plummer!” 

“Yes, my lady?” 

“Give the man something the next time he 
comes.” 

“Yes, my lady. Half-a-crown, my lady?” 

“Yes,” she said. “No! give him more than 
that. They might have been stolen, and it would 
have been a great inconvenience. Give him — 
give him half-a-sovereign. Don’t forget; I wish 
him to have it to-morrow night. You had better 
go to the door when you hear him in the street.” 

“Very good, my lady.” 

A bill, and a begging letter. Some furniture 
that had displeased her when they took possession 
was being warehoused, and at least one applica- 
tion for ten-and-sixpence in advance irritated her 
every month. The ninth woman who had written 
to say that she, too, had lost her baby in the 
spring, quoted the Scriptures and asked for 
twenty pounds. 

Her mind reverted to the keys. Yes, it was 
lucky that the postman had come — if they had 
been lost it would have been a dreadful nuisance ; 
there must be the keys of the safe here, there 
must be the key of Philip’s cash-box, there must 


£58 


THE WORLDLINGS 


be the key of his desk. . . . There must he the 
key of his desk! 

She sat quite still. The room was very warm, 
hut she felt suddenly cold in it. It shocked her 
that she could have thought of such a thing. What 
an idea; how had it entered her head? She was 
mortified that she had entertained it, even for a 
second. To open his desk — to spy? How im- 
possible ! Extraordinary that such baseness 
should have occurred to her. . . . She didn’t want 
any strawberries after all. She would go to the 
drawing-room. 

She found her pocket and put the keys in it; 
and went upstairs. She had left the piano open, 
and she wandered over to the music-stool ; but her 
touch was weak, and before she had played a bar, 
her eyes grew wide again, and her hands drooped. 
He kept his bank-book in the desk — she might 
have ended her doubt in five minutes ! She sighed 
impatiently, and struck another chord . . . and 
got up. 

A volume of verse was lying on the sofa, and 
she settled herself to read. When a quarter of 
an hour had gone by she awoke to the fact that 
she had not understood any line, and she put the 
book down. She drew the keys out, and sat 
looking at them. If she proved him innocent, she 
would own to him what she had done; she would 


THE WORLDLINGS 


259 

say: “Forgive me! I was mad to see if you were 
keeping the woman or not, and I went to the 
smoking-room and opened your desk.” “Opened 
your desk”? It sounded horrible! No, she 
couldn’t do it! 

But hadn’t she the right to do it — hadn’t she 
the right to learn the truth? The action was re- 
pugnant to her, but she was entitled to know. 
She could not live like this; better the one swift 
shame than the humiliation that she was suffer- 
ing — better a thousand times! When all was 
said, there was nothing unjustifiable in a woman 
looking at her husband’s pass-book; nothing hein- 
ous in her unlocking a desk that she had never 
been asked to consider sacred. ... If it held no 
secret, why should he object? If it didn’t hold 
the secret, she would apologise — she would tell 
him how much she had borne first. If it did, she 
would rejoice that she had overcome her scruples; 
she would be intensely and for ever glad of what 
she had done ! 

Perhaps the book was at the bank? She took 
her own sometimes, and for weeks forgot to call 
for it. She hadn’t thought of that till now. But 
his cheque-book, at least, might be seen. Those 
little slips at the side — what was the word? 
Counterfoils. Mrs. Fleming’s name would ap- 
pear in those. Would he imagine that it was the 


260 


THE WORLDLINGS 


money that she grudged? Heaven knew that he 
might have given away their money with both 
hands and she would have made no protest. He 
could not, he dare not, suggest it was the money ! 

The keys burnt her palm, and she moved rest- 
lessly to and fro. Somewhere within hearing, 
one of the untrained bands which are forbidden 
in their own country and to which England opens 
her arms, began to bray a German valse. The 
discords maddened her, as they were maddening 
many others. 

The Louis Quatorze clock struck nine. After 
a while, the brazen torture ceased. She put' the 
keys on the table, and returned to the poetry and 
forced herself to follow it — re-reading the lines 
until her brain grasped their sense. . . . The 
clock struck again, once. Her cushion slipped 
to the ground, and she rose feverishly. She 
couldn’t bear it any longer — she must know ! 

She went down to the hall without further hes- 
itation. The smoking-room was at the foot of the 
back staircase, and for once she dreaded to meet 
a servant’s eyes. As she turnd the handle she 
glanced over her shoulder apprehensively, and 
caught a breath of relief. In private houses 
electric light was not yet general, and a minute 
passed while she felt about the room for matches. 
She brushed the box off the mantelpiece, and it 


THE WORLDLINGS 261 

fell with a rattle in the fender. By the time she 
had lit the gas she was breathing fast. 

The desk stood opposite the door; it had been 
here when they came — a walnut desk and book- 
case combined, with drawers down the sides, and 
clear amber knobs. She dropped into the chair 
that faced it, and wondered which was the right 
key. 

Now when she had got so far, indecision seized 
her again, and while she yearned for certitude, 
she quailed in self-contempt. The sight of the 
desk magnetised her; but for some seconds her 
hands shook in her lap and she could not put 
them out. 

If he had dishonoured her, a moment’s strength 
would bring the knowledge; one effort, and the 
ignominy of her position with him would be over. 
Had he dishonoured her? — the answer lay inside. 
She lifted her hands, and bent forward. There 
were six keys on the ring, and any one of them 
might fit — she would have to try them all. 

She was trembling violently, and still she could 
not force herself to touch the lock. For an in- 
stant she wavered so — a reed between enticement 
and repulsion. Then she flung the keys from her, 
and sprang upright: 

“I won’t, I won’t!” she said: “I swear rid” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


&6S 

And when she had found them — far across the 
room — she went upstairs again and put them in 
her dressing-table, where they lay unseen till 
Maurice’s return. 


CHAPTER XXI 


A few days after he came back he received a 
letter from Rosa, that had been re-addressed at 
the Court. Evidently it had not been forwarded 
without delay; by its date he saw that it must 
have been delivered there on the day he left 
She had written at length; and his heart sank 
as he read the first page : 

“Sir Adolphus is backing out, and if I am not 
helped, it will be all up with me. I know all 
about your objection to seeing me in your house, 
and very foolish of you it is! — but this once I 
want you to invite me to stay at Pangbourne 
while he is there. You need never ask me any 
more, but this one visit means everything to me. 
I suppose you won’t spoil my chance rather than 
put up with a little unpleasantness? For Heav- 
en’s sake manage it at once. I’ve the right to 
turn to you — and I am” 

After the “am” the letter was repetitious, and 
in parts more urgent than lucid. 

He destroyed it in dismay. So his apprehen- 
sions hadn’t misled him; the difficulty was re- 
vived! He had to maintain that what she asked 
263 


THE WOKLDLINGS 


264 

was impossible, and this time his refusal would 
madden her. Although she would probably have 
swallowed her pride at such a crisis even if their 
reconciliation had not occurred, he recalled their 
meeting in Pall Mall with the bitterest regret; 
there was just a doubt whether she would have 
renewed her request if they had been still es- 
tranged; and certainly denial would have been 
easier. 

He did not know what to say to her. He was 
as averse as ever from wounding her with the 
truth, and in the circumstances he could not avoid 
it by the plea that he had advanced before. To 
tell her that she must sacrifice a definite matri- 
monial prospect because her presence in his home 
would remind him of what he wished to forget, 
would be the answer of a ruffian. He began to 
compose a reply in his head, with the instinctive 
hope that prelusory phrases would suggest an 
idea; but none came to him. All that came was 
a second letter, which she had directed to Prince’s 
Gardens and which reached him within a few 
hours of the first. In desperation at last, he sat 
down and wrote a hurried note, in which he said 
nothing but that he would write fully on the mor- 
row. It arrived at the same moment as some 
boxes from Bond Street containing frocks for 
the river. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


265 


She read it almost at a glance, before she 
looked at them. It alarmed her slightly. Still 
“fully” might mean with the invitation. He 
couldn’t be capable of ruining her in sheer dog- 
gedness — no man’s audacity could rise to such a 
pitch? She was glad that her second letter had 
been sent, for her references to his responsibility 
had been less veiled in that; one sentence she re- 
membered with especial satisfaction: “I have got 
nearly as far, myself, as I helped you to get; and 
now I ask you to give me a hand over the last 
half-yard.” That had said everything in a nut- 
shell, there was no shirking that ! Canting hum- 
bug as he was, he could not have the shameless- 
ness to answer that she must forego six thousand 
a year and a title, in order to spare him a month’s 
discomfort. He might squirm, but he would have 
to give in ! 

She spread the frocks on the sofa and the arm- 
chairs ; and fingered them, and moved about them 
backwards, with her head to one side; and rang 
for Emilie. And on the morrow her impatience 
was forgotten while she went to say that all the 
things must be sent for and altered. But in the 
evening, when the nine-o’clock post brought her 
nothing, she was very angry. 

What occasion was there for delay? It need 
not take him long to mention the matter to his 


266 


THE WORLDLINGS 


wife, and to scribble a line to say that he had 
managed it. Perhaps his wife had demurred? 
That might be the explanation — that wife of his ! 
Very likely she did not want anybody else to join 
her party; in a languid, superior way she was 
making difficulties? Well, he would have to in- 
sist, that was all! And “Lady Bligh” would be 
just as good as she, and wouldn’t fail to eye her 
with open disparagement whenever they met ; she 
wasn’t so startling, to judge by her portrait in 
the Illustrated London News — there had been 
nothing for a man to go crazy over. A man? 
Two statues staring at each other ! 

The following morning she woke so early that 
she had an hour to wait before the post was de- 
livered ; and when at last she saw Emilie empty- 
handed, disappointment tightened her throat. 
She returned from a milliner’s with the thought 
that a telegram might be awaiting her; and in 
the afternoon her chagrin found vent in the com- 
position of a furious remonstrance, which she 
sealed, and then tore up. It was not till she was 
going down to dinner that the letter appeared. 
She seized it with a sudden premonition of disas- 
ter — she knew that a blow was falling before she 
succeeded in ripping open the envelope. 

Maurice stated that unfortunately he was not 
able to come to her assistance. The idea of Sir. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


267 


Adolphus’s re-marrying was not approved by 
his intimate friends, of whom Helen was one. In 
view of the opinions that she held, it was abso- 
lutely impossible to ask her to do anything that 
was likely to further the match. He added friend- 
ly futilities. 

An access of rage rose out of her mental sick- 
ness. He could have hit on no excuse that would 
have exasperated her more. His wife disap- 
proved ! The woman who had ruined one of her 
chances already, “disapproved” of the other. She 
paced the room with exclamations, cudgelling her 
brains for argument. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t, 
resign herself to failure. Any humiliation was 
preferable; she would go on her knees rather 
than accept defeat! 

After a few minutes she began to question the 
truth of the message. Perhaps it was merely a 
cloak to his cowardice and he had never spoken 
about her to his wife at all? It might be a down- 
right lie, to conceal the infamy of his refusal. She 
snatched at the letter again: if the suggestion 
couldn’t be made, why hadn’t he said so at the 
beginning — what had he waited two days for? It 
was a lie ! and, fiercely as she hated him for it, her 
load lightened a little. The obstacle of his wife’s 
objection had been crushing, but this permitted 
her a breath of hope. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


Dinner was forgotten. She ran to the writing- 
table and caught up a pen. 

“You will do what I want,” she scrawled, “or 
I will make you pay for it with every shilling you 
have.” She continued in the same strain for half 
a dozen lines; and then paused uncertainly. No! 
She could not frighten him — he wouldn’t believe 
that she would beggar herself. Oh, what a scoun- 
drel he was ; she would like to see him in the gut- 
ter, wiping a crust! But since it was no use to 
threaten, what could she do? She was too much 
excited as yet to think of any course less obvious. 
Not much more than a week now was left of Au- 
gust, and unless she drove him into a corner, she 
would not hear from him again until he made the 
September payment. She burst into tears and 
threw down the pen despairingly; and it was late 
before she picked up another. 

“If your wife disapproves,” she wrote, “give 
me a chance to get into her good books; if she 
sees me, she may change her mind. I see by 
your kind letter that you are anxious to do all 
you can; so let me call at Prince’s Gardens to- 
morrow afternoon. If she doesn’t take to me 
when we meet, that can’t be helped — you will 
have done your best for me then. Wire what is 


THE WORLDLINGS 


269 


the best time for me to come; wire as soon as 
you get this. I am sure I can depend on you.” 

She became aware that she was feeling very 
faint, and she ordered some supper and a bottle 
of champagne. Her courage flowed back to her 
while she supped; she was proud of having sub- 
jugated her temper to diplomacy; and though she 
had small expectation of the telegram that she 
had affected to ask for so confidently, she did 
not doubt that Maurice would be announced at 
an early hour. Now that the note had gone, she 
regretted not having told him that she should 
read silence as consent and call about four o’clock 
if he didn’t telegraph. However, she had prob- 
ably said enough to bring him! 

Her brain buzzed in rehearsing her appeal, and 
she did not sleep till half the night had worn 
away. When she rose, she was far more tired 
than when she had gone to bed, and she perceived 
with consternation that the cogency born of cham- 
pagne had faded from her; the forcible phrases 
that had kept her awake and promised victory, 
no longer presented themselves. After all, when 
he did come, what was she going to say? She 
felt too spiritless to withstand anybody, and was 
cowed by the consciousness of her own lassitude. 

She took no more of her breakfast than the 
tea; but when she had dressed, she stimulated 


270 


THE WORLDLINGS 


her mind a little by a strong brandy-and-soda. 
About eleven o’clock, when she began to expect 
him, she thought that she might at least be fluent ; 
and by midday she was again eager. 

As the hours passed and neither a visitor nor 
a message arrived, her impatience glowed at 
white heat. She tried to lunch, but it was as 
much as she could do to swallow some biscuits 
with a second brandy-and-soda. Her uneasiness 
developed into a fury of indignation, and she 
told herself that never had a woman been so 
abominably treated before. Now she had no fear 
of being feeble if he came; perhaps it was just 
as well that he was late — the callousness had 
served to rouse her! She reflected that she ought 
always to have been the mistress of the situation, 
instead of a pensioner on his good-will. Other 
women, with not half such a hold over men, did 
as they pleased with them. It was monstrous. 
She ought to dominate, and she was a cipher. It 
seemed to her that she must be overlooking the 
lever — that, in relegating her to a position so 
subordinate, he must have traded on her stupidity 
from the first. This idea incensed her doubly. 

Maurice had not received her note until lunch- 
eon-time, for she had sent it downstairs after the 
night collection was made, and it had been de- 
livered at an hour when he was out. If she had 


THE WORLDLINGS 


£71 

known the fact, her anxiety would have been 
lessened. 

It appeared to him that the best course was to 
telegraph that he would be with her in the even- 
ing, but he was not immediately free to send the 
message. Helen had heard that her mother was 
indisposed, and she spoke of going to Oaken- 
hurst unless a telegram relieved her misgivings 
during the afternoon. It was three o’clock be- 
fore he was able to communicate with Rosa; he 
went to the office in Exhibition Road. In 
Prince’s Gate, as he returned, the occupants of 
a victoria bowed to him, and he was conscious of 
starting as the wheels flashed by; he wondered 
what had been thought of his abstraction. He 
felt as dreary as he had ever felt amid the dust 
of the Diamond Fields. In the oppression that 
weighed upon him, the hot wide street looked 
quite as barren, the life for which he had paid 
too great a price looked just as blank. How lit- 
tle it all meant, how soon one got used to every- 
thing! The expensive houses — he was master of 
one; the passing carriages — he, too, had a car- 
riage; the young men, waxed and varnished — 
equally expressionless, only their neckties and the 
flowers in their coats differentiating them — it was 
not long ago that he had envied their credit at 
their tailors’ ! 


THE WORLDLINGS 


272 

He had turned the corner, and as he crossed 
from the shade of the trees to the pavement, he 
saw Rosa on the steps. 

Evidently her inquiry had been answered. If 
he had been a minute later, she would have re- 
entered the hansom. Now it was impossible to 
avoid her, and he advanced heavily, wishing that 
at least the man had shut the door before they 
met. 

“Oh, you were out!” she exclaimed; “I didn’t 
suppose it was true.” 

He affected to overlook her excitement, and 
made an abortive effort towards persuasion. 

“You’re in a hurry,” he said. “Let’s get in 
the cab — we can talk as we go along.” 

The servant still waited, an impassive witness, 
and, without replying, Rosa walked past him. It 
was plain that to oppose her would be to create 
a scene in the hall. After an instant’s hesitation, 
Maurice followed and led the way to the smok- 
ing-room. 

“I have just wired to you,” he said. 

“Really? It was about time, I think!” 

“I wired that I’d call this evening.” 

“Did you indeed? Well, I’ve come instead, 
you see! I’ve come to hear what you’ve got to 

___ 5 J 

say. 

“I don’t understand,” said Maurice; “what’s 


THE WORLDLINGS 


273 


the matter? I hope you haven’t come to quarrel; 
I answered as quickly as I could.” 

“We won’t talk about your answer,” she said 
— her voice shook, and she pressed her hands to- 
gether tightly — “I’ve come to talk about my visit. 
. . . Understand this : you’ve got to invite me to 
Pangbourne. I don’t choose to ask favours of 
you any more. I think you must be mad to sup- 
pose you can treat me in the way you do. ... I 
think you must be mad to suppose you can have 
all the money, and all the say, after what I’ve 
done. I’ve as much right to everything as you 
have. ... You put me off with a few hundred 
a year, while you keep thousands; you tell me 
you can’t do this, and you can’t do the other. 
Remember who you are! . . . You’ve got to in- 
vite me to Pangbourne. I’ve borne just as much 
as I mean to bear. Whether you like it, or 
whether you don’t like it, you’ve got to do it! 
You’d better learn the sort of woman you’re deal- 
ing with — you’ve snapped your fingers at me too 
long.” 

Maurice took a turn about the room before he 
spoke. When he faced her his tone was studi- 
ously quiet : 

“You’re talking very wildly,” he said. 

“I’m saying what I mean.” 

“Yes; please let me go on. You’re talking 


274 


THE WORLDLINGS 


very wildly, and there’s nothing to be gained by 
it. I can’t do impossibilities, even to avoid a 
quarrel with you ; it isn’t in my power to ask you 
to Pangbourne. I quite sympathise with your 
disappointment; I’ll do the little I can do to con- 
sole you. But I can’t give you half my income 
now I’m married, and I can’t give you the invi- 
tation.” 

“Will you introduce me to your wife and let 
me have a chance with her?” 

“No,” said Maurice; “I’m sorry, but I can’t 
do that either.” 

“Ah!” she cried, “and why not? Why not, if 
you sympathise, as you say? Oh, you must take 
me for a fool to tell me such lies!” 

“Mrs. Fleming,” he said, “y° u make me give 
you an answer that goes very much against the 
grain. I’m a thief, but ... I have my conven- 
tions, like other husbands. As a woman of the 
world you should know that I can’t introduce you 
to my wife.” 

She lowered at him dully, failing at first to 
grasp the sense of his reply. Then it dawned 
upon her that he meant she was unfit to associate 
with the woman who had frustrated all her plans. 
She opened her mouth to curse him, but she 
could only pant. 

“I do sympathise with you,” he continued hast- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


n 5 


ily. “If I could give you the six thousand a year 
out of my own pocket, I would! I’ll think what 
I can do; you must understand, without my tell- 
ing you, that once or twice even the share you 
have has been difficult to manage. If I could 
explain where it went, it wouldn’t matter. . . . 
I must think! Perhaps I can raise money, since 
you aren’t satisfied.” 

She made no response. She was realising what 
his marriage had cost her from first to last. 

“Come, don’t let us part bad friends,” he said. 
“As you’re here, you may as well take your 
cheque now, instead of next week. And we’ve 
been very quiet : I can even draw it for five hun- 
dred if you like.” 

He wrote it, eager to be rid of her, but when 
he rose and held it out, she did not move. 

“Come,” he repeated, putting it down, “don’t 
let us part bad friends !” 

She began to revile him then — slowly, articu- 
lating by an effort; and he interrupted her only 
once, when she mentioned his wife. Some sec- 
onds passed while he listened to her. 

When she ceased, he spoke again; he was by 
this time almost as white as she : 

“It can do no good to prolong our interview,” 
he said. “It is quite true that I have broken my 
word to you ; and circumstances must always pre- 


27 6 


THE WORLDLINGS 


vent my keeping it. To tell me that I had no 
right to marry is only to say something that I’m 
conscious of in every minute of my life, but no- 
body has done you any wrong except myself.” 
He stood waiting for her to go. 

Helen came into the room, with her mother’s 
telegram in her hand. 

“Philip,” she said, “I thought you’d like to 
know my mother wires that ” 

“I’ll come to you!” he exclaiming, starting for- 
ward. 

She had paused at the sight of the woman. 
Instinct had named the woman, and his words 
confirmed her instinct. Her heart seemed to jerk 
to her throat, and her knees trembled. She 
turned to the door; but Rosa was reckless. 

“Lady Helen,” she said, urgently, “I’m glad 
to meet you ! I’m sure Sir Adolphus has talked 
of ‘Mrs. Fleming’?” 

For a moment Helen wavered, questioning 
still. Maurice committed the first of two mis- 
takes; he picked up the cheque — and she saw it. 
The room lurched; she knew an agony of fear 
that she was going to betray her agitation; but 
her pride rose supreme. Her indifferent gaze 
met the other’s — and ignored her. It was the 
only sign that she made of having heard. 

The blood surged to Rosa’s head; she was 


THE WORLDLINGS 277 

filled by an ungovernable impulse to defy them 
both. 

“Your husband,” she added, insolently, “has 
just invited me to stay with you at Pangbourne ; 
I’ve told him that I shall be very pleased to go.” 

Maurice’s second error was delay. He had to 
cope with a woman who had lost her senses, and 
there was an instant in which he stood irresolute, 
daunted by the thought of what he might pro- 
voke. His hesitancy was fatal. 

Helen spoke now, not to Rosa, but to him ; her 
intonation was perfectly level, perfectly distinct. 

“I am sorry,” she said, “that I must decline 
to receive Mrs. Fleming — either at Pangbourne 
or here. You will be good enough to make her 
understand that my house is not open to her.” 

“There isn’t any question of your receiving 
her,” he said in a quick undertone. “I’ll come 
to you directly; go back to the drawing-room 
at once.” 

But in Rosa the limits of endurance could be 
strained no further. All her pulses clamoured to 
retaliate, to destroy; and nothing else mattered. 
Her single thought was requital, her sole anxiety 
was that she would not have time to taste the 
triumph. 

“You ‘decline to receive’ ?” she gasped; “your 


278 


THE WORLDLINGS 


‘house isn’t open’? I’ve as much right in the 
house as you have!” 

Before she could say any more Maurice sprang 
to her; he clapped his hand on her mouth. 

“Go, go!” he said to Helen, “I’ll explain after- 
wards. In God’s name, why don’t you go?” 

The power to move seemed to have left her; 
she was spell-bound by the woman’s struggle to 
speak. During the few horrible seconds in which 
he stood holding back ruin, Maurice wondered 
if he would have done better to seize Helen, in- 
stead, and thrust her from the room. 

The sound stunned him at last: 

“I’ve as much right here as either of you! His 
name isn’t Philip Jar dine at all — he’s a damned 
imposter I can send to gaol!” 

After the sound came silence — a silence more 
fearful than any sound in life. After a long 
time, he forced his eyes to Helen’s face. It was 
rigid; it was like the face of a woman who had 
died of fright. The silence became too tense to 
be borne; Rosa herself was appalled by it; but 
the return of reason chilled her veins, and speech 
had frozen in her. Triumph, and even resent- 
ment, congealed. She felt dizzy and afraid as 
she realised what she had done. . . . Still nobody 
spoke. No scream, no outburst of despair, could 


THE WORLDLINGS 


279 


have had the awfulness of the overpowering si- 
lence, which seemed as if it would never end. 

Presently, watching his wife’s lips, Maurice 
heard her whisper: 

“Tell her to go.” 

He went to the door and opened it. 

“Are you satisfied?” he said. “You can do no 
more!” 

Rosa moved towards him slowly. She an- 
swered nothing; she did not look at him as she 
passed. The thought of escaping from the room 
filled her with relief. 

He waited while she crossed the hall — until 
the outer door was slammed. Then he turned; 
and the weight of silence sank upon the room 
again. . . . 

“What shall I say?” 

She stared before her speechlessly. 

“What shall I say? ... You know now! I 
have done you the worst injury a woman ever 
suffered. I’ve no defence; but — I loved you, I 
— that’s all, I loved you. ... I meant to go 
away, never to tell you. I shuddered at my 
thought of making you my wife; I struggled, I 
did, I did! But — oh, my God, I loved you! . . . 
I believed the disgrace could never touch you — 
only she knew — I thought you were safe. . . . 
Helen!” He took a step towards her, and shrank 


280 


THE WORLDLINGS 


as he met her eyes. “I gave her all I could to 
keep her quiet; I would have done anything but 
allow her to know you. . . . I’m a thief — what 
she said is true; they might put me in the dock; 
but my punishment, my degradation has come — 
to stand before you like this.” 

“A thief,” she moaned, “a thief!” 

“I gave her all I could,” he muttered. “I 
thought you were safe.” 

She put her hands to her head, gazing at him 
wildly. 

“Who . . . are you?” she asked. 

“My name is Maurice Blake; I used to be a 
gentleman.” 

“I think I’m going mad,” she said; “my head 
feels — No! don’t touch me. There — stay there 
- — tell me all.” 

“I thought you were safe,” he repeated. 

“No — the beginning, all!” 

“He died when I was with him — the real man 
— we were very much alike. That woman was 
his mistress — I persauded her to help me. ... I 
was poor; I’ve been very near starvation in my 
life. . . . My father lost a fortune, and died in 
want. Poverty killed my sister — she was a lady, 
you wouldn’t have refused to know her; she died 
of cruel work, and too little to eat. ... I said 
there was only one God : Money ! And the chance 


THE WORLDLINGS 


281 


came. There was no one to be displaced — I had 
only to call myself ‘Jardine.’ . . . Ah, what can 
you know — you! — of what the chance meant to 
a man like me? I took it; and — and I’ll be can- 
did — I didn’t feel much shame till I met you. I 
had never spoken to such a woman as you — I 
imagined you when I was a beggar. Since you’ve 
been my wife, conscience has made my life a 
curse. . . . It’s too late. My love was my worst 
crime, but — you had it all. I sinned to you be- 
cause I couldn’t conquer my love for you — I’ve 
ruined you because I loved you. For God Al- 
mighty’s sake, don’t look like that — your hor- 
ror’s killing me!” 

“ ‘Love’?” she said hoarsely. “Speak of your 
poverty, not your ‘love’ — I know you! . . . 
You’ve degraded me . . . you’ve made me a 
thief — you’ve done me every wrong a man can 
do a woman — you haven’t spared me one! . . . 
Oh, my mother did well; I might have married 
my cousin — she gave me to you instead!” 

“Helen!” he cried; “Helen, I loved you!” 

“She gave me to you' 3 she said through her 
teeth; “to you , without honesty, without con- 
science. . . . Let me go!” 

“I loved you!” He had clutched her dress. 

“I hate you; I hate you! ... I pray that I 


282 THE WORLDLINGS 

may never see you again. I thank God my baby 
died!” 

“Give me a word ! You’re my all ! You make 
my heaven or my hell by what you say. . . . 
Helen, have pity!” 

“I have none!” she said. She dragged her 
skirt from his hold; and he stood in the room 
alone. 


CHAPTER XXII 


When she opened the door again, he was in 
the chair to which he had stumbled as she left 
him. He could not guess how long ago that was, 
but he saw that she was going away. 

He got up, and the sun shone on their faces 
while he waited for her to speak. 

“There’s something I want to say to you first,” 
she said, in a low, monotonous voice. “I’m going 
to Whichcote; I shan’t see you any more.” 

“No,” he said, as she paused, “I understand ; 
you won’t see me any more.” 

“I — I’ve been thinking, as well as I can think 
yet. She said she could — could punish you. . . . 
Will she?” 

“It’s not likely; she’d punish herself at the 
same time.” 

“I thought so. . . . But she said it?” 

“She was mad; she would have told all London 
this afternoon. She must be sorry enough by 
now.” 

“If she did — I mean if it were known — what 
could they do to you?” 


283 


284 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“Do to me?” he said, dully. “It’s penal servi- 
tude, I suppose.” 

She shivered and shut her eyes. 

“Who?” she said, “who would it be?” 

“ ‘Who’?” 

“Who would have to do it — your father?— I 
mean Sir Noel?” 

“Yes, Sir Noel would have to prosecute; I 
don’t know that he would!” 

“But he might?” 

“Yes, he might, of course; but I don’t fancy 
you need fear a public scandal. I — I fancy you’ll 
be spared that.” 

“I was thinking of you ” she said. . . . “He 
has always been fond of you, I can hardly realise 
that he’d treat you like a common — like ” 

“Perhaps not. He’d hesitate on your account 
— I might escape because of you. . . . That’d 
crown my career.” 

“But ... on the other hand, he’s fond of you 
because he believes you’re his son,” she said, 
thickly. “If he knew you were a stranger who — 
if he knew what you’ve done, how can you be sure 
what his feelings would be then?” 

“ ‘Sure’? I have scarcely wondered yet; I’ve 
been thinking of your feelings, not of his.” 

“I have thought all the time,” she said; “I’ve 
thought of all you say: that you’ll persuade that 


THE WORLDLINGS 


285 


woman to keep the secret, and that you’re only 
afraid of me — that your safety depends on me. 
And I thought that Sir Noel might hesitate for 
our sake — for my mother’s and mine; I thought 
of that. ... I thought what I would say. But 
... he might refuse! and then it would be too 
late. After I had told, it would be too late!” 
The lump in her throat was choking her; she 
swallowed convulsively. “I want you to know 
that I shan’t betray you. You must do as you 
please. I shall never touch another penny of his 
money. I’m leaving everything — every single 
thing that you’ve paid for — but — but I won’t 
run the risk of sending you to prison; I suppose 
I shall be as guilty as you — but I can’t run that 
risk.” 

By the twitching of his lips she saw that he 
was trying to speak. Then on a sudden he cov- 
ered his eyes. 

“I — I thank you,” he said, in a whisper; 
“you’ve always been the grandest woman God 
ever made. My sins are my own — I wouldn't 
have your conscience troubled to save my neck! 
And now that I’ve lost you, what do I care for 
the rest? It’s you I want, not the money. To 
let you sin for me? I’d damn myself a thousand 
times first — I’d have damned myself a thousand 
times to spare you what you’re suffering. If 


286 


THE WORLDLINGS 


you hadn’t come in, I should have quieted her: 
you’d have been safe. ... It doesn’t matter — I 
suppose it was meant to be — but why did you 
refuse to speak to her? You knew nothing, and 
- — and it was that that did it all.” 

“I had heard,” she answered; “I heard some 
time ago. My mother will think that’s why I 
have left you — because of her” 

“You ‘heard some time ago’? . . . When you 
questioned me ! Y ou heard what ?” 

“There’s no need to deny it; our life together 
has been ended anyhow. I mean that I had heard 
what she was to you ; and when I came in, there 
was the cheque.” 

He pieced her words into a coherent whole. 

“You think that I’ve been false to you?” he 
exclaimed. “Good heavens! how little you know 
yourself.” 

“Do you tell me I’m mistaken?” she faltered. 

“I swear by — by You that since I have known 
you — since the first day I saw you — there has 
been no other woman in the world to me ! I was 
true to you when I thought you would never 
belong to me. And she — she was never anything ! 
I have never thought of her in such a way. The 
cheque? The cheque was her share; there have 
been many cheques.” 

“She was seen in your rooms ... at night? 


THE WORLDLINGS 


287 

That was before you married me ; but once — once 
it must have been so? Oh, it doesn’t matter — 
then or now! I don’t care, it’s nothing to me.” 

“I know it’s nothing to you,” he said, “less 
now than ever ; and I know that I have been noth- 
ing to you; but, guilty as I am, I’m innocent of 
that. I can’t expect you to believe anything I 
say — but I’m innocent of that! She did come to 
my rooms one night — I remember; it was after 
I had left you, while I was struggling to keep 
away from you. Yes, she came there, and Boul- 
ger came in — I remember. It was twelve, I 
think. There was no harm. If I were dying, 
and they were my last words: I’ve been true to 
you from the hour we met !” 

His eyes besought her, and she bent her head. 
It had come too late to make her happiness, but 
she marvelled that she could be so glad ; she mar- 
velled that faith in this could lighten the horror 
that lay upon her brain. 

“I believe you,” she said. 

“God bless you! You’ve shown me more 
mercy than many a woman who had loved me 
would have shown. Don’t fear my shielding my- 
self behind your silence — I must say that again 
and again in our good-bye. And your life shan’t 
be ruined — I’ll take care of your name. Tell your 


288 


THE WORLDLINGS 


mother what you choose, but be guided by her 
till you hear of me again — it won’t be long.” 

“I shan’t put you in danger,” she declared. 
“What I have said, I mean. You will confess, 
or not! I’ve given you my word.” 

“I understand.” 

“I think that’s all. . . . I’m going.” 

“Wait,” he said, “I am considering you. . . . 
Write to somebody — one or two friends — that 
you’re staying at Whichcote till your mother is 
better. . . . Invite some more people to go to us 
at Pangbourne. Don’t forget. Write at once.” 

“What’s the use?” she muttered; “we shall 
never be seen together any more. ‘Pangbourne’? 
Even if you escape punishment, everyone will 
know we spend our lives apart.” 

“I am considering you,” he repeated; “it’s your 
name that I’ve been thinking about ever since 
you went upstairs. Do what I say! ... It 
doesn’t seem quite real to be speaking to you for 
the last time — but I know that I am. Don’t 
hate me more than you can help; I’m thankful 
that you believe I’ve been true to you. I hope 
by-and-by you’ll be able to forget something of 
what I’ve made you suffer. You’re very young, 
and if the world doesn’t know, it’ll be easier for 
you; trust me, I’ll do my best to prevent that. 
Of course you’ll always remember that I didn’t 


THE WORLDLINGS 


love you well enough to act fairly to you, but per- 
haps, later on, you’ll try to believe that I loved 
you with the greatest love I was capable of. . . . 
I don’t want to cant, or to be a coward — you’d 
better go.” 

His teeth were set, and he clenched his hands 
that he mightn’t lift them to her. 

“Good-bye,” she said, brokenly. 

“Good-bye, Helen,” he said. 

She went out. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Rosa had tumbled on the couch; her eyes 
were dilated, her hands impotent and wet. The 
explosion no longer reverberated, but she lay 
crushed in the ruin. Earlier, the reaction had 
held the relief of hysterical tears, but now the 
vehemence of despair, like the fury of resent- 
ment, had passed. She never moved; her stare 
never wavered; she lay where she had fallen, 
thinking. 

What would happen? She had wrecked her 
world. That she had shattered the world of 
others neither troubled nor consoled her. She 
was faint with horror. Everything was over; 
this morning all her future had been safeguarded 
— this afternoon she was a beggar. For an in- 
stant she questioned whether Maurice mightn’t 
approach her, whether his wife mightn’t lend her- 
self to the fraud, in order to retain her position; 
but the hope sank as it came. It was too wild; 
a woman like that did not do such things! No, 
she repeated it: everything was over, her future 
was a blank; a few pounds, a few diamonds, these 
were all that remained. 


290 


THE WORLDLINGS 


291 


Would she be prosecuted? Only when this fear 
recurred to her, a shiver mounted from her vitals 
and twitched her mouth. She had sought to ex- 
tirpate the dread by the reminder that she was 
safe unless Sir Noel proceeded against Maurice 
- — that to imprison him would cover his wife, and 
his wife’s family, with disgrace — that they would 
do their utmost to avert it; but now misgiving 
mastered her again. Supposing that, in their 
wrath, they wished to see him punished, or sup- 
posing that their efforts failed? The Baronet 
was harsh, vindictive — she had learnt his charac- 
ter from his son, long before Blake professed to 
read it — perhaps he would be obdurate ! Then a 
new terror sprang into being; she remembered 
the term “compounding a felony”; it flashed upon 
her that her condonation itself might be punish- 
able — he might be forced to prosecute? 

Beyond the flaring phrase the law was dark 
to her ; she knew nothing of its subtilisation ; she 
was as ignorant of the name of her offence as of 
the penalty annexed to it. She heard herself sen- 
tenced, like Maurice, to penal servitude. 

Fright leapt to her throat; she turned dizzy 
and sick. Suddenly the thought of escape en- 
tered her bruised brain. Why should she wait? 
Even if she cowered before a scarecrow, why 
should she wait? She had nothing to gain by it; 


THE WORLDLINGS 


it would be to incur a risk for nothing. Her in- 
come, her hope of marriage, had melted into black 
air; suicide that she was, she had not even seized 
the last cheque obtainable ! Why should she wait ; 
for what? . . . She would go abroad at once — 
she would go back to America! Yes, she would 
leave here early in the morning; she must pawn 

her j ewels. In the States W ell, she wouldn’t 

starve ! 

She must determine her movements — she 
mustn’t delay. How difficult it was! Her mind 
swirled and her memory had gone; she had to 
struggle to recall familiar facts. She tried to 
repress her agitation, to look straight ahead, but 
her tortuous thoughts tricked her a dozen times ; 
a dozen times reflection forsook her utterly, and 
she succumbed to helplessness. . . . 

She would move early in the morning to some 
little hotel in a different quarter — the most un- 
likely quarter — Bermondsey, Bow. Were there 
hotels in Bermondsey, or Bow? Islington! she 
would move to an hotel in Islington. . . . She 
must discharge Emilie first; if she left her here 
and pretended to be coming back, it might prove 
a blunder. It would be safer to pay the wages 
that she couldn’t afford and get rid of her. What 
would she be able to raise on the jewellery? She 
couldn’t add the prices; and no doubt she had 


THE WORLDLINGS 


293 


been cheated. She might get a hundred; per- 
haps a hundred and fifty. She mustn’t drive di- 
rect to the hotel — she might be traced by means 
of the cabman. No, she would drive to Charing 
Cross, and leave her luggage in the cloak-room 
while she booked her passage. She would book 
it in an assumed name. Then she would have 
her trunks put on another cab, and hide until 
the day the boat sailed. ... If they meant to 
arrest her, they might have the ports watched? 
. . . Well, she would go from Liverpool, and 
she’d write to Blake that she was returning to the 
Cape — they could watch the wrong port! . . . 

Perhaps a note to him wouldn’t be opened? A 
telegram was more likely to attract attention. 
. . . But she couldn’t be confidential enough in 
a telegram ; if she didn’t appear confidential and 
contrite, they might suspect that the motive of 
the message was to throw them off the scent. 
. . . She would write a note marked “Private”! 
If they wanted her, they’d be certain to open 
that. She would say — what should she say? It 
must sound very natural — it must sound impul- 
sive. Two or three lines would be best. 

The clock struck. For the first time she was 
aware that the room had grown quite dark; she 
was bewildered to realise how long ago it was 
that the idea of flight presented itself. She had 


294 


THE WORLDLINGS 


told Emilie that she was not to be disturbed, 
but now there was the packing to be done, and 
the dismissal to be given. And she was weak, 
worn out ; since she could not eat, she must drink. 
She put her feet to the ground, and lifted herself 
feebly. Her clothes felt damp, and she tottered 
a little when she stood. Then she steadied her- 
self by the table, and groped, clammy and nerve- 
less, towards the bell. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Helen had gone; they had parted. There 
were moments when Maurice repeated it, because 
it seemed unreal once more, too swift and too 
strange for actuality; moments when the sudden- 
ness of the disjunction scattered his thoughts and 
pain was deadened by stupor. They had parted. 
It sounded impossible; and yet nothing in life 
could have been more natural — nothing more un- 
natural than that they should have remained to- 
gether. 

He had dined, or made a semblance of dining: 
the servants must have no grounds for comment'. 
The fact of their existence recurred to him more 
pressingly than it would have done to a man in- 
durated to the espionage of the least grateful 
class. He had sat through dinner and swallowed 
tasteless food, and drunk a couple of glasses of 
claret; and now he returned to the smoking-room 
and pondered again. 

Helen had left him; she was never coming 
back. Nor could he ever implore her to come 
back; he could not have implored her to come 
back even had she loved him, for after he con- 
295 


296 


THE WORLDLINGS 


fessed, he would have nothing to offer her; he 
would not have a home. That would be the end, 
when he confessed — he could walk into the streets 
without a prospect. He was thankful that he 
was nothing to her — if she had loved him, the 
blow would have been heavier to her still. 

He could walk out of the house without a 
prospect — if he took no more than he owned, 
without a shilling; but possibly they would de- 
sire him to go abroad? It might be understood 
that he had gone to one of those places where 
men sometimes disappeared in quest of big game; 
they might hush the shame up? It could not be 
hushed up for ever, though. How could they 
account for his not succeeding to the property? 
They would have to say that he had died. It 
would be very risky; he couldn’t make a living 
in a desert — he might be recognised one day. 

And even if her world imagined him dead, he 
would be her husband still. In every hour she 
would remember. Time promised nothing in a 
case like this. Time could bring neither forgive- 
ness for such an injury nor the right to beseech 
it. No matter how hard he worked, he could not 
work a miracle; work as he might, his poverty 
and his sin would divide them! 

She had never cared for him. She had accepted 
him for his position — and the position was lost. 


THE WORLDLINGS £97 

She might have married her cousin, she had said. 
If her one false step could be retracted, she might 
wish to marry him yet. As it was, she could 
marry no one; she would always be the wife of 
a scoundrel who had blasted her life. She had 
trusted him, and as long as he lived the mistake 
would be irreparable. She was barely twenty- 
seven; as long as he lived, forgetfulness would 
be denied to her. Whether the disgrace of his 
imprisonment fell upon her, or not, whether 
strangers believed her free, or not, he would be 
standing between her and the chance of happiness 
as long as he lived ! 

It all pointed to one course, he had seen it 
before she said good-bye to him; the only thing 
he could do for her was to kill himself. As soon 
as he was dead her anguish would be over. No- 
body could ever know anything then. Her name 
would have been saved, and she would again 
have a future. She would be in the same position 
as if he had been the real man. 

But there must be no suspicion of suicide, it 
must look like a mishap. If he shot himself, he 
would spare her much, but not all. In every 
West End club and drawing-room his act would 
be a nine days’ wonder; in default of an ex- 
planation, several would be invented. Ultimate- 
ly the situation would not lack a beast to slander 


298 


THE .WORLDLINGS 


her, to raise his eyebrows and say, “My dear fel- 
low, don’t you know?” The calumny would be 
credited only by those who were avid to impute 
dishonour to any woman, but they were numer- 
ous enough. At the thought of such a whisper, 
the man’s biceps tightened. No, he had to do it 
so that his death wore the air of an accident! 
But how? He put out his hand for his pipe, and 
filled it meditatively. How? 

He must decide at once — in the meanwhile she 
was suffering. Could he drown himself? If 
they had been at Pangbourne, that might have 

been the best way ; here, however The pistol 

came to his mind continually; he could think of 
little else. . . . Presently he recollected that, 
where he had stayed in New York, a man had 
nearly lost his life through an escape of gas dur- 
ing the night. Was that plan feasible? To make 
sure, he would have to fasten the window, and 
close the register, and in the morning the house- 
maid would Even then there might be 

enough ventilation to frustrate him! . . . 

Abruptly his thoughts took another turn. 
Since he was going to die, what necessity was 
there to confess? It demanded no courage — it 
could not harm him in the smallest degree — but 
it seemed to him that it would be rather cruel. 
It would be to give an old man who was fond of 


THE WORLDLINGS 


299 


him a great grief for nothing. In the circum- 
stances it would be needlessly brutal, he consid- 
ered, rather cheap. . . . 

But again, how? Men had taken poison by 

mistake. Could he arrange matters so that 

But everybody knew the danger of an overdose 
of that ! and no medicine that he could recall was 
sold in such small phials — it would be evident 
that he had drunk the bottleful by design. . . . 
Dr. Sanders had once said that suicide by hypo- 
dermic injection might defy discovery; they had 
been talking of a fraud on an assurance com- 
pany ; he had said that even the cleverest medical 
man might be deceived. What did one have to 
ask for? the details were forgotten. Besides, the 

things would be found afterwards and How 

had Dr. Sanders explained away the things? . . . 
It was a pity that the crash hadn’t come at Pang- 
bourne — her release might have been immediate ! 

Dawn was breaking when he put down the 
pipe and went to his dressing-room. The thought 
of death engrossed him, and the consciousness of 
her absence was dormant till he realised that me- 
chanically he was moving on tiptoe. The poig- 
nancy of loss leapt in him afresh. He opened 
the other door; he looked at the empty bed and 
saw the room at Oakenhurst. Did she sleep yet? 
He buried his face in the pillow that hers had 


300 


THE WORLDLINGS 


pressed last night, and hated himself that he was 
still alive. 

All through the morrow his brain sought the 
means to set her free. It was not till the even- 
ing that he determined what to do. It must hap- 
pen at Pangbourne next week; the delay couldn't 
be helped. He would write to Sir Dolly that 
Helen was joining him there in a few days — 
that she and her mother were coming together as 
soon as Lady Wrensfordsley was well; he would 
ask him not to postpone his visit. Casually he 
would mention that he was mastering the man- 
agement of an outrigger, or a Canadian canoe, 
and that he rose at sunrise every morning to avoid 
the derision of spectators. He might invite Fred 
Boulger too, so that he could say the same thing 
to somebody else. Then one morning he would 
go out in the boat and come back again ; and the 
next morning the boat would be found over- 
turned and he wouldn’t come back. He would 
drown, he swore it. It would be a ghastly effort 
to refrain from swimming, he supposed, but he 
could lock his hands and remember it was for 
Her. 

The nine-o’clock post was delivered. There 
were three letters. Two of them were for Helen ; 
the other was Rosa’s note to himself. His curi- 
osity to see what she could still find to say was 


THE WORLDLINGS 


301 


of the slightest; he put the letters for Helen in 
an envelope, and directed it to “Lady Helen 
Jardine.” He might have known that she had 
not written, but suddenly he had hoped to hear 
from her as the man entered the room ; he won- 
dered that he could have been so foolish. There 
was only this! 

His impulse was to destroy it unread, but he 
broke the seal, and glanced at the contents indif- 
ferently. “She was going to the Cape and he 
would not hear from her again ; his recriminations 
would never reach her, so he could save himself 
the trouble of making them. It was no use to 
tell him that she was sorry !” The last was a 
postscript. 

He tore the paper into infinitesimal pieces, and 
dropped them in the basket. No, it was no use 
at all, he agreed with her; nothing on earth could 
be more futile. 

She was disappearing; she had fired her shot, 
and was staggered by the recoil. His wife would 
be silent in mercy, and Rosa Fleming would hold 
her tongue in fear. The circumstances were very 
propitious. If he liked, the position that he had 
sinned for might be retained. He need neither 
confess, nor die. He need only take Helen at 
her word! 

He smiled. Now that he knew that her agony 


802 


THE WORLDLINGS 


would cease in ten days, half of his own had 
rolled away. He revolved his project patiently, 
debating whether it left any opening for suspi- 
cion. He could see none. It appeared to him 
perfect, save for the drawback that the house 
wasn’t at their disposal until the thirtieth of the 
month. Sir Adolphus’s presence in it would he 
no drawback: he, assuredly, would not get up at 
sunrise; and as to Boulger, he would never be 
there at all, for he could be asked to come a fort- 
night hence. 

That night Maurice slept more peaceful. 

The following day was Sunday. In the after- 
noon, for the first time since she had gone, he 
wandered from the drawing-room to the boudoir, 
and touched the trifles that had belonged to her. 
There was a book with a jade paper-knife pro- 
truding from it; he remembered an insignificant 
remark that she had made when she looked at the 
title, and that he had watched her cut the leaves. 
There was her music on the piano; her birds were 
singing in the fernery beyond the open door. 
When he shut his eyes, the scent of the heliotrope 
gave her back to him. After a little while he 
heard Plummer usher in a visitor, and started as 
a familiar cough told him who the visitor was. 
For a moment he stood disconcerted, question- 


THE WORLDLINGS 


SOS 


ing. Then he returned to the drawing-room, and 
Sir Noel looked sharply round. 

“Oh, you are at home,” he said; “the man 
wasn’t sure! Well, you see I’ve come to town — 
I’ve come to hear what it all means. What is the 
meaning of it, eh? The news has upset me very 
much.” He wiped the heat-drops from his fore- 
head with his handkerchief. 

“You should have sent me a wire,” said Mau- 
rice; “if you wanted me I could have gone to 
you. You must be tired — I’ll tell him to bring 
you something.” 

He rang the bell before a protest could be 
made, but when the servant reappeared Sir Noel 
would have nothing. His fingers drummed his 
knees impatiently till the interruption was past; 
and the door had no sooner closed than he broke 
out: “Lady Wrensfordsley came to me this 
morning; I could scarcely believe what I heard! 
She wished to come to you, but Helen had made 
her promise not to approach you. It is a very 
scandalous thing, Philip. I can’t make it out. 
I — I am terribly distressed.” 

“Lady Wrensfordsley was laid up,” murmured 
Maurice, at a loss how to reply; “is she all right 
again now, then?” 

“Yes, she is all right. Well, well, well, you 
have not told me if it is true! I’m waiting to 


804 


THE WORLDLINGS 


hear what has happened. I understand that your 
wife has left you and that you offer no opposition 
— that you were quite willing for her to go. It’s 
extraordinary! What does it mean? Is it a 
fact?” 

“Yes,” said Maurice, “it’s a fact. I couldn’t 
oppose her going. How is she — have you seen 
her?” 

“I’ve only seen Lady Wrensfordsley — Helen 
didn’t know that she was coming to me. She 
was in great grief — and there is no explanation 
made ; she is quite in the dark. Helen says noth- 
ing but that she will not go back to you. At 
first her mother hoped it was only a quarrel, but 
she seems to think it is quite serious — that you 
intend it to be a separation. You yourself tell 
me so?” 

Maurice nodded. 

“There is, I suppose, another woman? Al- 
ready !” 

“Did Lady Wrensfordsley say that?” asked 
Maurice. 

“She told me that Helen had suspected it for 
some time, but that now she denies it — that sh6 
says she was mistaken. Her mother thought that 
that was the reason, but Helen said ‘No’.” 

“I’m glad,” said Maurice. “No, there’s no 
other woman, sir. There never has been.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


305 


“Then why have you parted — what about? 
Your wife has gone, and you do nothing to bring 
her back? You — you do not attempt to make it 
up with her?” . . . He rose nervously and laid 
his hand on Maurice’s arm. “It can’t be that — 
that you have found out something?” 

“Good God!” gasped Maurice. “She’s the 
noblest woman in the world.” 

“Then — then — I have a right to be answered! 
I have come to hear what has taken place. Y ou 
think so much of her, yet you let her go? I in- 
sist on your explaining to me. If it’s not her 
fault, it’s yours. It has got to be put straight. 
I have promised to use my influence with you. 
You must bring her home — you must return with 
me to-day.” 

“I can’t. Helen wouldn’t wish it, sir. I let 
her go because it was impossible to prevent it; 
it’s impossible to bring her back.” 

“Are you mad?” said Sir Noel shrilly. “Do 
you understand what it is you are talking about? 
One would think you were a boy! What do you 
suppose people will say? I think she must be 
mad, too! Her mother is in despair, I tell you. 
We have got to know what it all means. If you 
refuse to answer me, I shall go to Helen myself. 
These things can’t be allowed to happen.” 


306 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“You mustn’t do that,” exclaimed Maurice; 
“she has borne all she can!” 

“She has ‘borne’ — you have treated her badly? 
Then it was not true what you said: you have 
been unfaithful to her?” 

“No.” 

“No? But ” his voice cracked with anger; 

“what then? What else can she have had to bear 
— you are not a navvy to ill-use her. Damn it, 
you’re exasperating me, Philip! Why do you 
make a secret of it; can’t you speak?” 

“It is between her and me,” said Maurice, after 
a pause. “That is all I can say.” 

“All you can All right! Then I will go 

to your wife — she shall say more! You have 
both of you a duty to others — you seem to forget 
that it also concerns her mother and myself. I 
shall try to make Helen remember it, since you 
don’t. It is disgraceful!” 

Maurice looked at him with harassed eyes. *Tf 
you question Helen,” he stammered, “you will 
torture her — and you will learn nothing. She’ll 
never tell you ; but she’ll suffer cruelly.” 

“We shall see,” said Sir Noel. “Perhaps you 
will oblige me by ordering a cab?” 

“If I refuse to answer, it is simply because it 
would be a blow to you ; and it isn’t in the least 
necessary that you should ever know.” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


307 


“That is a matter for me to judge. May I 
trouble you to ring? I am waiting to go.” 

Maurice took a few slow paces, and turned 
thoughtfully. 

“Very well,” he said, “I’ll tell you. I think 
you had better sit down, sir.” 

Nearly thirty seconds passed while he consid- 
ered how to say it — how to avoid stunning him 
with the five words that said it all. 

“When your son wrote to you from the Dia- 
mond Fields,” he began, as gently as if he had 
been speaking to a child, “there was a man there 
called Blake — Maurice Blake. They were ac- 
quaintances; they were both broke. The other 
man was very much like your son. . . . After 
you got the letter, your son caught camp-fever. 
Before your draft was delivered he had died. . . . 
Do you understand?” 

The old, bewildered face was still attentive; 
the change in it did not come. 

“He had died?” murmured Sir Noel. “No, 
no, I do not understand. Who had died? — the 
other man, ‘Blake’? What of it?” 

“No.” His gaze was fastened on him. “Think 
what I’ve said — they were very much alike. . . . 
The one who died was your son. I am Blake.” 

Even then, only the sense of calamity seemed 
to have reached the old man’s brain. The dawn 


308 


THE WORLDLINGS 


of comprehension in the eyes was slow. The 
colour sank slowly from the wrinkled face, and 
left it grey. He began to tremble ; he understood. 
Twice his lips moved and Maurice listened, but 
no sound came. 

“You are ‘Blake,’ ” he said at last, tonelessly; 
“you are not my son.” He said it as if he were 
trying to teach himself a lesson. 

“I am not your son.” 

The white head drooped lower and lower, and 
there was a long silence. The clock had ticked 
away almost a minute before Sir Noel spoke 
again: 

“You are not my son.” 

Maurice strode to the door. “Let me get you 
some brandy !” 

“No, no; I am all right. . . . Come back. Tell 
me everything; I want to hear. It is — it seems 
• — it’s difficult to realise. Philip is dead — you are 
not Philip at all.” 

“I have robbed you.” 

Sir Noel nodded. “Yes. I was thinking of 
my son — that I have not known him. . . . Philip 
is dead!” Then the most pathetic thing in life 
happened ; an old man began to cry. 

But the man who was watching him suffered 
no less. 

“Tell me everything,” repeated Sir Noel pres- 


THE .WORLDLINGS 


809 


ently. “That is why Helen has gone; I see! Oh, 
how dared you marry her, how could you do it? 
You have — have — God! . . . How did she dis- 
cover it?” 

“There was a woman your son used to know; 
she came to England with me. She gave me 
away out of spite.” 

“Your mistress?” 

“No — his. My partner.” 

“Who is she? What is her name?” 

“She has gone abroad. The responsibility was 
mine. You needn’t try to punish her” 

“You have ruined that poor girl’s future! 
Your injury to me is bad enough, you have com- 
mitted a fraud; but to Helen! No, she could 
never live with you for a day again, of course — 
no woman would go back to you. You are a 
scoundrel, you should be sent to prison! And 
you stand there like stone; you say nothing! 
Have you no penitence, no shame?” 

Maurice lifted his shoulders wearily. 

“It’d be very cheap to talk of penitence now 
I’m found out,” he said. “Who do you think 
would believe me? Would you?” 

“But when you — you took my boy’s place, you 
were in difficulties, eh? You were poor — it was 
a great temptation? You couldn’t do such a 
thing without a struggle?” 


310 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“I did it,” said Maurice for answer. 

“You came to me without remorse. You pre- 
tended to feel affection for me while you stole my 
money. And — and I was fond of you — I was 
proud of you at last!” 

Maurice turned a little paler. 

“It sounds like a whine,” he said, “but you’re 
wrong in just one thing. I did feel what you 
thought I felt; that wasn’t pretence.” 

Because the assurance was so welcome, because 
he resented the weakness that urged him to ac- 
cept it, the old man answered more bitterly: 

“I care nothing what you felt! You have 
cheated me out of all I gave; it was my son I 
loved, not you.” He started with a sudden 
thought. “He is dead — you are not deceiving 
me still?” 

“He is dead — he died as I have told you. He 
died in Lennox Street, Kimberley; he is buried in 
Kimberley. You can have the name of the doc- 
tor that attended him.” 

“He — he spoke of me sometimes?” The voice 
was very wistful. 

“Yes.” 

“I don’t know anything. Since he was a boy 

I All that you told me when you arrived — 

all that I believed, that I was happy to believe — 
that was Philip’s life, or yours?” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


311 


“The farm was his; the rest of it was mine.” 

Sir Noel sighed. 

“And his?” he asked. “Should I have Been 
happy to hear his ? When we parted he — he was 
not all that I had hoped my boy would be; you 
know that. It has been my greatest joy to think 
that he had reformed, that he had come home so 
different. It has been far more to me than every- 
thing else; and now — *— ! . . . Tell me: if he had 
lived, he would have been good to me? he spoke 
of me, you say, but — but not unkindly? he looked 
forward to our meeting? I should have been 
proud of my son, too? Give me the truth, if you 
have any conscience in you ! Should I have been 
proud of my son?” 

Maurice marvelled that a further falsehood 
could be so abhorrent to him, but he did not hesi- 
tate. He met the pitiful gaze boldly and lied 
with a will. 

“He spoke of you with affection and repent- 
ance always. His life was a clean one. He was 
an honest man, and a gentleman, and a fine fel- 
low. You would have been proud of your son.” 

“I thank God,” said Sir Noel. He drew a 
deep breath. “I thank God!” 

The silence was broken by Maurice. 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I shall see, I — I must think.” 


312 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“If you consent to keep quiet till next month, 
you will spare her a great deal. Only till the 
beginning of the month !” 

“I must think.” He pointed to the bell. 

“Let me beg you not to go yet; you aren’t fit 
to travel. Wait till the morning, sir — it’s your 
own house. If you like, I’ll leave you in it.” 

“No, no, I won’t stop; I am better now.” 

“There isn’t a train yet. Hest here alone. . . . 
I’ll come back if you want me.” 

He went downstairs and told Plummer to take 
brandy to the drawing-room. No message was 
brought to him; and an hour later Sir Noel went 
away. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Coequal with her horror, there was in Helen’s 
mind a relief that amazed her, and that she 
sought to ignore. It had surprised her in the 
moment of its birth; here at Whichcote the re- 
lief, and the astonishment had increased. She 
had been mistaken! It mattered nothing; she 
reflected that Philip — that “Maurice!” — had been 
false to her in a way that all the world would 
hold to be incomparably viler; but there were 
seconds in which the thrill of thankfulness resem- 
bled joy. He loved her! He was — her mind 
cowered before the word ; but he loved her ! 

For the most part she had passed the two days 
alone in the garden. With the circumstances un- 
explained, companionship could not be assuasive 
r — it was natural that her mother’s dismay should 
be mixed with irritation — and her only solace was 
solitude. In the garden she sat for hours, gaz- 
ing blankly across the tree-tops, wondering if he 
would confess. She did not repent her pledge to 
him; though the burden of reticence was crush- 
ing her, the responsibility of revelation would 
have been heavier still. She could not feel that 
313 


THE WORLDLINGS 


SU 

it was for her to proclaim the fact that might 
place him in the dock. But it was for him! A 
thousand times she asked herself if he would do 
it. Unlike her own assurance, his had been made 
on impulse. Would it be fulfilled? She tried 
to view the situation with the eyes of a man who 
could act as this one had acted; and the stand- 
point terrified her. Why should he confess? To 
lift a weight from her conscience — the conscience 
of a woman who would never return to him? To 
free her from the sin of secrecy, which he might 
persuade himself was venial, since she had no 
share in the gain? It would be to renounce all 
for nothing. He had smothered every scruple to 
win the position; he had demonstrated how pre- 
cious it was to him; he had risked imprisonment 
for it: why shouldn’t he keep it and live the lie 
out if he trusted her — and he knew that he could 
trust her? Dared she hope that when he had de- 
liberated, he would see any need to ruin himself, 
only to spare her a pain that he could not under- 
stand ? 

She longed for him to do the right thing; she 
longed for it passionately. While she relived 
the scene of their good-bye, she believed that he 
would have the strength. It appeared to her 
more and more improbable that Sir Noel would 
be merciless to him ; and, at the worst, she felt it 


THE WORLDLINGS 


815 


better that he should be sentenced than that he 
should prove himself callous. She felt that it 
would be better for them both. It would be 
ghastly, unspeakable — she would be the wife of 
a convict; but she could think of him with pity 
then; she could reflect that he had done his duty 
at last, and of his own free will; she would feel 
less degraded by her love. 

In her thoughts she had said it. By her love! 
She shivered ; it was as if her nature and she had 
suddenly parted, as if she had been treacherous 
to it. That she was loved she had triumphed to 
remember, repeating that it mattered nothing — 
she was a woman. That she loved was an ig- 
nominy that she could not face. 

On her third evening at Whichcofte, Lady 
Wrensfordsley said to her: “Helen, I went to 
see Sir Noel this morning. He has gone to 
town to see your husband.” 

Helen looked at her with parted lips. The 
news of the early drive had partially prepared 
her, but the announcement was still a shock. She 
did not know whether she was glad or sorry that 
her suspense was so nearly ended. It seemed to 
her that she was only frightened. 

“You told me that you would do as I begged,” 
she said slowly; “I didn’t wish Sir Noel to learn 
it from us.” 


316 


THE WORLDLINGS 


“My dear girl, I told you I wouldn’t go to 
Philip yet, that was all — I thought he would have 
been down before this. You didn’t really sup- 
pose that it could be allowed to continue? You’ll 
both have to go to Pangbourne directly — there’s 
no time to waste. If neither you nor Philip will 
make a move in the matter, somebody else has 
got to do it; and the proper person is Sir Noel.” 

“He has gone, you say?” said Helen. “When 
did he go?” 

“He was going this afternoon. No doubt he 
will come over to-morrow to luncheon — unless he 
sleeps at Prince’s Gardens to-night — and this ab- 
surd affair’ll be finished. I’m disappointed in 
Philip ! Whatever he may have done, or you may 
have said, it was his duty to follow you and make 
you go back again. It isn’t like him to behave so 
foolishly.” 

Helen put her arm round her mother’s neck, 
and kissed her without speaking. For a moment, 
as she thought of what the morrow might mean, 
her wretchedness was purely compassion. Lady 
Wrensfordsley patted her hand cheerfully, en- 
couraged by the caress. Her discrimination was 
too keen for her to feel as much confidence as 
she had affected ; and now, for the first time, she 
believed that her daughter was eager for a recon- 
ciliation after all. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


31 ? 


But on the morrow Sir Noel did rot come to 
luncheon. All the morning Helen sat listening 
in the garden-chair for the sound of wheels. Had 
he been told, or not? There was a humming in 
her ears that made listening an effort, she felt a 
little deaf. Overnight, fear had revived and she 
was haunted by the thought that he might have 
gone at once to his lawyers. Faith in her power 
of dissuasion had deserted her; it seemed to her 
even that she would be able to find no words at 
all — that he would speak and she would stand 
there dumb, acquiescing lifelessly. 

During the afternoon the strain was greater. 
The glare of the day subsided, and the servant 
brought out the tea-table. Lady Wrensfordsley 
remarked that she supposed Sir Noel had re- 
mained in town. Her voice jarred Helen’s every 
nerve — she was listening now with an intensity 
that delayed her breath. She nodded, and re- 
plied in a low tone. 

By six o’clock her anxiety was insupportable. 
The Court was not much more than a mile away ; 
she determined to go there. 

In the consciousness of approaching certainty, 
she found the exercise a physical relief. She 
wished that she had gone earlier. Repeatedly she 
asked herself what she should say if he had come 
back unenlightened, if he appealed to her for ex- 


318 


THE WORLDLINGS 


plication. She could tell him no more than she 
had told her mother, and the position would be 
hideous; she would have to refuse to explain in 
the moment of learning that Philip — that “Mau- 
rice” — meant to go on robbing him! Still, her 
visit would have only precipitated the ordeal; it 
would be no less terrible if it came the next day ! 
Far better to bear it now, she felt, and to set her 
doubts at rest. 

Although it was in the highest degree unlikely 
that he would have started so late, she had kept 
to the carriage road, and she was not afraid of 
hearing that he was out when she reached the 
lodge. Rarely had she walked the length of the 
avenue, and now it seemed to her more tedious 
than the distance between the houses. As she 
waited at the door, she wondered with what sen- 
sations she would pass out of it. When it was 
opened, she was informed that Sir Noel had re- 
turned from town the previous evening so fa- 
tigued that he was unable to receive. 

She knew that her gaze was betraying her, but 
it felt fixed — she couldn’t drop it. She stam- 
mered an inquiry whether he was in his room, 
and heard that he was down, but — the iteration 
was mechanical — “very fatigued, my lady.” 

She turned away dizzily. She never questioned 
whether the excuse might not be partly true ; she 


THE WORLDLINGS 


319 


did not reflect that it was natural that he should 
feel unfit to bear an immediate interview with 
her mother, and that her own visit had been un- 
expected; she saw only that, after twenty- four 
hours of rest, he had ordered the servants to deny 
him to her. He knew ! he knew — and he wouldn’t 
see her! Panic engulfed her; her knees knocked 
together; she did not doubt that he would prose- 
cute after all. In the avenue she had to stop; 
on a sudden the view had contracted and the col- 
ours paled — it had changed to a little, dimmish 
picture no bigger than a window-pane. She had 
never fainted in her life, hut for once she feared 
that she was going to faint. 

Then the thought came that Maurice had 
shown greater fortitude — that she must be as 
strong as he. He had confessed! He had con- 
fessed without compulsion. Momentarily her 
terror sank and the knowledge ruled supreme. 
What he had told her was true — the position was 
worthless to him now without her! The confu- 
sion passed from her mind; only her limbs felt 
very weak as she went on. She remembered that 
now she might break the news to her mother; she 
thought that she would do so in the morning; 
her mother would use her influence with Sir 
Noel! It recurred to her abruptly that the Rec- 
tor and his wife had been invited for this evening; 


820 


THE WORLDLINGS 


she had learned the fact when she arrived, and 
now she quailed at the prospect. Her husband 
was in danger of penal servitude, but she mustn’t 
be late for dinner! She forced herself to hurry, 
wishing that a cab would come in sight. Pres- 
ently she realised that she was dwelling as much 
on the truth of his assertion to her as on the idea 
of his imprisonment; she was bewildered to per- 
ceive that amid her gusts of consternation she 
was feeling glad. 

She found Lady Wrensfordsley’s maid wait- 
ing for her. All but her most recent dresses — 
those that might be paid for with her mother’s 
money — had been left behind; beside herself as 
she was, she reflected that the one laid out would 
embarrass the Rector’s wife; she told the girl to 
choose a frock that was simpler. She entered the 
drawing-room in time ; and she smiled and mur- 
mured urbanities, and praised the new alms- 
houses while her soul was on the rack. She 
had been trained to do these things. 

When she was alone again, she pushed up the 
window and threw herself, dressed, upon the bed. 
She was divided between terror and a sensation 
that was indefinable. But the terror had dimin- 
ished : she could not imagine her mother yielding 
to such disgrace; Sir Noel would succumb to her 
entreaties — he must ! The thought of his sorrow 


THE WORLDLINGS 


321 


did not reach her, and yet she was a generous 
woman. All her sensibilities were absorbed by 
the man she loved. It was typical of the sexes 
that no sympathy for the other had entered her 
mood yet and that it had been the adventurer, 
not she, who pitied him. 

She wondered what Maurice was feeling, in 
which room he was sitting ; mentally she returned 
to the home that she had left. He had confessed; 
he needn’t have done it, and he had confessed! 
Craving to be proud of something, she exulted at 
the thought of that. She went over to the ward- 
robe and took out the envelope he had directed 
to her, and sat looking at it. . . . Would he ever 
write to her? . . . What would become of him? 

For the hundredth time she reminded herself 
that he had been tempted by experiences that she 
was hardly capable of conceiving. She upbraid- 
ed herself that she had made no allowance for 
that in the scene of his abasement ; he was in tor- 
ture, and she had trampled on him. Oh, she had 
been brutal! how could she have spoken so? She 
began to sob — horribly — with her teeth set, and 
her nails pressed into her palms. 

He had been faithful to her! She no longer 
turned her eyes from the immensity of its import 
to her. She rejoiced — she gloried — to know that 
he had been faithful. He had sinned, deeply, 


322 


THE WORLDLINGS 


basely; a lifetime of privation could not have ex- 1 
onerated him from the sin; but — he had been 
faithful to her! The rest dwindled; he had held 1 
her, body and soul ; to the woman who loved him 
everything was subordinate to the knowledge that 
she was loved. She realised it — she knew she 
had been paltering with the truth from the hour 
of his exposure. She understood that he was 
just as dear to her. 

She sat at the edge of the bed quite still. She 
did not marvel — the violence of emotion had 
passed — she did not condemn herself, she was not 
conscious that it would embitter her future; for 
a minute she felt strangely peaceful ; she felt hap- 
pier than she had felt for months. 

Reason asserted itself again. She was scourged 
in recognising that by their marriage he had been 
guilty twice; like lashes it fell upon her — “twice!” 
“twice!” And then, once more, her mind obeyed 
the guidance of the infinite within her, never sur- 
mising where it was led. She recalled his face as 
he cried to her “I struggled!” She dwelt, as he 
had dwelt, defenceless, on his belief that she was 
safe. Eagerness, love, her womanhood found a 
compellatory plea — he had been enslaved by her ! 

Her thoughts roved through their life together. 
Words that had conveyed no meaning to her 
when they were spoken, came back to her and 


THE WORLDLINGS 


spoke for him now. Comprehension staggered 
her; something of the weight that had lain upon 
the man’s mind, rolled upon her own; she could 
not imagine how he had supported it. In the 
complexity of her commiseration she vaguely re- 
sented his having suffered like that unknown to 
her. 

A passion of reproach assailed her for the in- 
difference by which she had intensified his pain. 
“You’re my all.” She shut her eyes and heard 
him say it. . . . “Conscience had cursed him” — 
and she had denied him even the love he was 
thirsting for! He had submited to her coldness, 
her petulance, her egotism, without a murmur; 
even when he had lost hope he hadn’t wavered 
from her: “You’re my all.” And she had said 
she hated him! she had been frightened to believe 
— she had still thought that woman was his mis- 
tress then. . . . But she might have told him it 
wasn’t true before she said “good-bye”! 

To sleep would have been impossible. She 
moved to the window and sat looking out into the 
darkness — her arms folded on the sill, her chin 
resting on her arms. She had never been a re- 
ligious woman ; since she was a child she had not 
uttered a spontaneous prayer; but presently she 
began to pray. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Sir Noel deeply regretted the instructions 
that he had given. He was as yet too shattered 
to break the news to Lady Wrensfordsley, and, 
thinking it likely she might call on him in her im- 
patience, he had stated with emphasis that he was 
at home to no one. She had said that Helen 
knew nothing of her visit ; that Helen might call 
he had not taken into account. She had not come 
to him when she discovered the truth, and he had 
had no reason to look for her on this especial 
day. 

It had already occurred to him to wonder at 
her leaving her mother in ignorance, and now he 
wished testily that she had unbosomed herself to 
her directly she arrived. If she had done so, he 
would have been spared the most distressing fea- 
ture of the interview that he had to face. Later 
than the morrow he could not wait, and he was in 
no condition to perform a vicarious duty without 
resenting it. 

He had returned to the Court dazed. This was 
not his son! He had been told it, and his nerves 
had assented to it, and he had never ceased to 
324 


THE WORLDLINGS 


325 


say it to himself, but many hours had passed be- 
fore his brain could absorb the knowledge, before 
he could compass the sense of actuality. The 
shock was far greater than if he had been sud- 
denly despoiled of a well-beloved son by death; 
the mind could have grasped a corporeal loss. It 
was the fact that the man he had loved was liv- 
ing, but a stranger, that constantly evaded him. 
Bereavement broke his heart — and the man was 
still alive. 

Even when he had spoken to Maurice of prose- 
cuting him, he had known that he would not do 
it. He could meet him no more — the man must 
go away and struggle for a livelihood again; he 
must make a written statement of the facts, cor- 
roborated as far as possible by documents, and 
properly attested ; he must make a statutory dec- 
laration verifying the statement, so as to prevent 
all difficulties hereafter. He must go back to 
the life he had left; but there should be no prose- 
cution! The idea was repellent, Sir Noel shrank 
from it; at first he was not conscious why. 

It was by very slow degrees that recognition, 
came to him ; it was very gradually that he awoke 
to the perception that his son had, in truth, been 
nothing to him but a painful memory — that the 
son who was buried less than three years since 
had been dead to him for more than twenty-five. 


326 


THE WORLDLINGS 


He realised confusedly that it was “Blake” who 
had given him the joy of fatherhood at last, that 
it was “Blake” who had wiped out his remem- 
brance of ingratitude and dishonour ; he saw that 
he was mourning the loss of the living man and 
not the dead one. 

But even when he saw it, the aversion from 
acknowledgement remained. It was not a thing 
that the bitterness of injury would readily ac- 
cept. He had heard of Helen’s coming and been 
chagrined, and dismissed the matter, before the 
relief of surrender made it clear how wearily his 
pride had been wrestling with his affection. He 
owned to himself that to refrain from prosecut- 
ing was insufficient to alleviate his sorrow — that 
he could not endure the thought of the man’s go- 
ing from him in poverty, or living in need. 

He recalled the sentiments with which he had 
welcomed his “son’s” return, and knew that they 
were worldly compared with the feelings of six 
months later. He recalled the wretchedness with 
which he had parted from his son, and knew that 
to part from Maurice hurt him more. The man 
was a stranger — but he was the only son he had 
known. 

It was finished! He would never clasp his 
hand again; never again stroll beside him and 
feel so fatuously proud to be his father. The 


THE WORLDLINGS 


327 


delusion was over; he had now no cause for 
gratitude but that his own son — his “own” son! 
he whose personality was to-day so dim — had re- 
deemed his youth. The rest had been a dream. 
Only that was real; only that was left him as he 
woke! 

The man must go; but there must be . . . 
something every year — two hundred, three hun- 
dred — to guard against the possibility of want. 
He must not go empty-handed; he must have a 
sum to begin life afresh with, to provide him with 
a chance ! 

He went to his desk, and wrote a few difficult, 
formal lines. And the next afternoon his note 
was received. 

It had seemed to Maurice that remorse could 
extend no further; but, as he read, he knew that 
he had underrated his capacity for suff ering. Al- 
most he regretted that he was called upon to bear 
the poignancy of forgiveness. And then there 
came a quick revlusion; the thousand pounds, the 
three hundred a year were proffered to him — to 
him, Maurice Blake ! Materially the promise was 
valueless, but morally it was worth the fortune 
he had renounced. It was an expression of re- 
gard conceded to him in his own character; it 
was a proof that he had, at any rate, filled the 
dead man’s place not unworthily. 


32 9 


THE WORLDLINGS 


His impulse had been to decline the offer in 
the letter of repentance that he had already writ- 
ten. But he would accept it instead — he need 
never accept the money! Only a week, and Hel- 
en’s release would have come : why should he in- 
flict pain by an unnecessary refusal? He would 
add to his letter an assurance of his gratitude ; of 
his contrition he could say no more. 

He went out with the letter himself. He had 
headed the postscript “Tuesday.” Next Satur- 
day he would be at Pangbourne; on the second 
morning after his arrival he was going to drown. 
He realised, as he went along, that this was the 
last Tuesday he would be alive. 

When he returned to the house, he heard that 
Helen was in the drawing-room. 

She stood up as he reached the threshold, and 
for an instant they looked at each other breath- 
lessly. 

“I’ve come back,” she said — “I know!” 

“You’ve come back?” 

“I know that you have told him; I have told 
my mother — she’ll see him, she’ll do her utmost. 
I came to tell you not to fear. You won’t be 
punished — I am sure, I am sure you won’t ! He’ll 
let you go ; and I’ll go with you.” 

“You’ll go with me?” He could only echo 
her. 


THE WORLDLINGS 


329 


“You have confessed,” she muttered. “Haven’t 
you confessed? All last night I was awake. I 
thought of you — I knew what you must feel. I’ve 
come back to stop with you.” 

“Sit down,” he said. “Dearest, you’re trembl- 
ing. Yes, I’ve confessed; but he has been very 
generous — nothing will be done.” 

Her eyes closed, and he saw the upheaval of 
her bosom by relief. Wide-eyed himself, he 
moved towards her, wondering. Her face was 
hidden, and he watched the tremor of her hands. 
He stood by her diffidently, yearning but afraid. 

“May I touch you?” he asked. 

“Oh, my own! I love you, I love you!” she 
cried, and held him fast in her arms. 

When she withdrew her lips, he remembered 
he was going to die. He knew that it was still 
best for her that he should die, although a miracle 
had happened. But he could say nothing; and 
it was she who spoke, showing him her soul till 
all was clear to his understanding, except how 
the glory of this woman’s love could have been 
vouchsafed to him. 

“What did he say?” 

Mechanically he gave her Sir Noel’s note. He 
was aghast in the knowledge of what her love 
meant, in realising that she could attain happi- 
ness in the future only by passing through great- 


330 


THE WORLDLINGS 


er grief. He had thought to give her peace at 
once — and first he would intensify her pain! 

She read the note through very slowly, twice. 
Its formality did not mislead her; she recognised 
how the man who was able to pardon must have 
suffered, and she was filled with pity and admira- 
tion for him. A woman less great than she would 
have broken into wonder of his absolution and 
doubled the abashment of the man who was ab- 
solved. She did not. She clasped Maurice’s 
hand, and their gaze dwelt together; that was all. 

“You’ll take it,” she murmured. 

He shook his head. “I can’t. I couldn’t do 
that even if I It would be impossible!” 

“You can,” she said; “he wishes you to take 
it. He knows now, and he offers it to you .” 

He could not tell her his intention, and there 
was no other answer. 

“There are several reasons why you must take 
it,” she went on: “because it is to you yourself 
he offers it; because he must care for you very 
much to write so and your refusal would deepen 
his distress ; because I am willing to take it, and 
you will accept it for me” 

“You don’t understand what you are saying!” 
he exclaimed. “I adore you — you are being sub- 
lime — but even if I took this money, what good 
would it be? Compared with what you are used 


THE WORLDLINGS 


S31 


to, it would be penury. I couldn’t give you a 
home; I should have nothing but the hope that, 
with a little capital, I might find the struggle 
easier than I did. I should have to leave you 
anyhow — I should have to go abroad and work.” 

“I will go with you,” she said. 

She was pleading to him for his life, but she 
did not guess it. He kissed her, and put her from 
him. 

“If I could keep you for my wife, knowing 
you as I know you now,” he said, “and knowing 
that I did you no wrong by it, it would be the 
highest heaven that I can conceive. But I should 
be doing you a brutal wrong — another! Can 
you picture what it would mean with me? It 
would mean that your mother, and your friends, 
were lost to you — not for a few years, or for 
many years, but for always ; it would mean living 
in a little house, in a middle-class street, in a 
free-and-easy country, and facing a hundred 
economies that to you would be hardships. For 
acquaintances you would have the neighbours — 1 
and nothing to say to them. All day long while 
I was away, you would be alone, remembering. 
My ceaseless aim would be to prove myself 
worthy of his goodness before he died, and at last 
the goading thought would harass you. The lux- 
uries, the pleasures, the refinements that you have 


332 


THE WORLDLINGS 


been brought up to take for granted would be re- 
nounced for the companionship of a disgraced 
man. You aren’t much more than a girl, and 
you’d be sacrificing the rest of your life.” 

“I will go with you,” she said. 

“Helen,” he cried, “you came to tell me that 
you’d stay until the worst happened; was your 
mother willing that you should come?” 

She was silent. 

“No! And your duty is to her, darling, not 
to me. To me you have no duty. She may live 
for twenty, thirty years; and you are the only 
child she has, she’s very fond of you. Do you 
think it would be right to leave her against her 
will, to desert her for a scoundrel you owe noth- 
ing to? She’d miss you very much; as she got 
older she’d miss you more. She has her amuse- 
ments now, she has her health; by-and-by she’ll 
have fewer amusements, she won’t be so strong. 
She would be very lonely without you, and you’d 
know it every day. When you got her letters, 
you’d cry — by yourself, so that you shouldn’t 
wound me. Oh my Love, my Love! let me do 
what’s best! Try to be happy without me. When 
you grieve, think of the future and remind your- 
self that grief can’t last — that months of the 
worst misery are better for you than being al- 
ways chained to me!” 


THE WORLDLINGS 


333 


She looked up at him. She was very pale, but 
her mouth was firm, and resolve rejoiced in the 
splendour of her eyes. 

“ I will go with you!” she said. “I do not ask 
my ‘duty’ — I am going because I love you — be- 
cause I can’t live without you — because you 
shan’t live without me. There is no duty to keep 
a woman from the husband she loves, and if there 
were a thousand, it should be the same. Your 
hope of proving yourself grateful will harass me? 
Me? Your hope’ll be mine, the very breath of 
my life. The house will be very little? How 
little you must think my love! Do you suppose 
that luxury is dearer to me than you — how dare 
you say it? I love my mother, but I love you 
more; I may suffer sometimes to be separated 
from her, but I should suffer worse to be away 
from you. And I shan’t hide my tears from you, 
as you say — you shall know every thought and 
impulse that I have. I shall give you all, because 
you must give all to me. . . .You must let me 
speak — I may never speak like it again — it isn’t 
long since I learnt to know myself ; I want you 
to know me, too. You’re dearer to me than any- 
thing on earth, your sin has made no difference to 
my love; I never knew I could love as you have 
made me. Think what you feel for me, and 
know that here in my heart, day and night, there 


334 


THE WORLDLINGS 


is the same for you. Take me with you, and 
we’ll be brave together. Take what he offers, 
as you care for me! I’ll love you as you hoped 
for once, and more — you shall find the reality 
diviner than your dream. If you refuse, you’ll 
be penniless and you could starve; I would face 
anything with you, but I know what would hap- 
pen — we should have to take money from my 
mother, and you would loathe that. His is of- 
fered to you without thought of me — to you your- 
self, for your own welfare, because he is attached 
to you, because he wishes you to have it. For my 
sake, if you love me, if you want me, take it, and 
begin again!” 

“I mil take it,” he answered. “God bless you, 
and help us both ! . . . Will you say it — you’ve 
never said it yet?” 

She put her arms about his neck, and whis- 
pered, knowing what he meant: 

“Maurice! Maurice!” 

“And you are sure, sure you will never re- 
gret?” 

She drew him closer to her breast, and laughed. 


THE END 
































































































































I 


* 







